


I'm the Reason You're Divine

by Pyreclaws



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Eventual Smut, Gambling, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Serial Killers, and a bunch of electroswing songs, and me being angry that nobody taught me speakeasies were hella gay, based on konoira's crime au art, but I didn't want to focus on them very heavily, cop kink, gore. because of serial killers, like 5k of just kissing, medical gore, mentions of period-typical attitudes, period-typical detective work. which was 'clean up that blood so I can work on my hunch', period-typical smoking, semi-public handjobs, swing dancing that's also dirty dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 79,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyreclaws/pseuds/Pyreclaws
Summary: It's 1921. David is a young, optimistic police detective - just two years out of the academy - who does what he’s told and doesn’t ask enough questions. Prohibition has moved drinking and dancing underground with jazz and gambling at the same time David's partner went missing. But with a serial killer whom Commissioner Campbell has dubbed "the Prophet" hiding in town, bodies are piling up in his jurisdiction, and David can only hope he - or his partner - doesn't end up being one of them.





	1. There are things that will give you wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys this is honestly the seventh time I've tried writing this fic and I'm finally somewhat happy with it! It's been in the works for ages and I'm finally confident enough to post. Here's hoping I can keep up an update schedule of a chapter every week-two weeks (knock on wood) but I'm pretty rusty in the actually writing department so I'm just gonna do my best
> 
> Work title is a reference to Tape Five's "Bad Boy Good Man" (and a nod to the first artwork I ever saw of konoira's which was a speedpaint that had said song as background music~)

“David, you go take down the witness statement. I’ll head up and check on the body, okay?”

“Okay,” David said with a nod, pulling a little flip notebook and a pencil with very little eraser from his coat pocket. He tossed the coat back into the driver’s seat with a heavy woolen  _ fumpf _ . “We’re sure there’s a body in there?” he asked, straightening his tie with shaky hands.

“That’s what the landlady said over the phone,” Gwen reminded him, voice low. Her eyes darted right and left, searching for anyone who might overhear.

“Okay,” David repeated with a sigh.

“You don’t even have to see it,” Gwen reminded him, motioning towards the apartment complex’s thick oak front door.

“You’re the best, Gwen,” he told her as he started walking along the neat sidewalk, voice tremulous.

She trailed behind him by half a step. “Yeah, I know.”

David hopped up the three concrete steps and rapped his knuckles on the wood. He grinned as he waited, and then realized the person he would be greeting had just found a dead person on their property and tried to school his expression into something more respectfully somber. His fingers fiddled idly with the edges of his shiny badge.

The door hadn’t swung open more than a half a foot before he’d raised it, and wiggled it, in front of him.

“Uh, hi, we heard--”

“Police,” Gwen butted in as a little old lady struggled with the door chain.

“Oh yeah, we’re the police, uh, hi, we heard there was a...disturbance?”

The landlady finally got the door open and stared up at David from behind huge glasses. “Yes, I was just cleaning up after some old tenants,” she began.

“Let’s step inside for this,” Gwen suggested flatly from over David’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” David agreed, “could we step inside, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes,” she chirped, and pulled the door wide.

Immediately, the scent of vinegar and dust wafted through the doorway. David peered through to the darkened interior, noting the thick but worn rug and the set of wide, low stairs. The walls, hung with pastel wallpaper, bubbled in places from age. It looked lived-in; well traveled. An oil lamp flickered on a side table, the afternoon sun slowly sliding down the horizon - but it hadn’t disappeared yet.

David stepped inside, and Gwen followed.

“So, I was cleaning up after some tenants moved out, getting the apartment ready for another tenant, and when I walked inside,” she quickly said, as Gwen closed the front door.

“Mmhm,” David hummed, taking out a notepad and his very sad little pencil. He held the notepad in front of him, blank, and tapped at the paper thoughtfully.

“There was a fellow I never seen before just layin’ dead on my rug!” she pointed forcefully upstairs.

“I’ll go take a look at the room while my partner takes a statement,” Gwen told her, laying a comforting pat on her shoulder. “I know this has been hard for you,” she soothed, before backing away a step and nodding respectfully.

“So, did you touch the body at all?” David asked brightly as Gwen ducked up the stairs, one hand on her gun, tucked neatly into her shoulder holster.

“No, no, I came straight down here and I phoned for the police. I certainly didn’t put him there,” she explained, peering up at David as he continued holding out the notepad in front of him as if it would reveal something.

He scratched out,  _ Did not touch body _ .

“Was there anything interesting about the body or the room when you entered?” David asked again, finally taking the time to look this old woman over for signs of blood or a struggle.

She stood - or more like hunched, really - at around five feet, her fingers hooked with age and smoothed down from labor and cleaning chemicals. She wore her salt-and-pepper hair at medium length, aforementioned glasses pushed high on her slender nose. Her clothes were simple, worn but clean and neatly mended. She had eaten pasta sometime earlier, judging by the lingering scent of roasting garlic and a dot of something far too red to be blood on the corner of her apron. Absolutely nothing useful.

_ Pasta _ , he wrote on his notepad, just in case.

“Well, there was a dead man I’ve never seen before laying on the floor of my apartment,” she said slowly, raising her eyebrows. “It was quite interesting.”

“Mmhmm,” David hummed, scratching out  _ Landlady thinks body is interesting. Never seen victim before _ .

“You don’t think I did this, do you?” she asked, sounding tired.

“We have to see where the facts lead,” David replied vaguely, tapping his pencil hand against the paper. “Who were the tenants living--”

“David!” Gwen shouted from upstairs. “Get up here right now! You need to see this!”

David’s head snapped to look up the stairs. Gwen stood at the top, leaning over the banister, her face pale.

“But...!” he protested weakly, “You said...!”

“David, it’s  _ him _ ,” she said, her voice suddenly deathly grave.

David dropped the notepad and pencil on the side table without a word, and took off up the stairs two at a time. When he reached the top, she pointed wordlessly at the only open door in the apartment hallway, the first one on the right.

Even before David rounded the corner, he could smell the metallic tang of blood. He leaned around the door frame, quickly noting the cozy living room marred by a trail of dark blood soaking into the rug. And there in the center of the room, laid out like he’d fallen there and hadn’t gotten back up, a familiar body.

“No, no...” David muttered, standing straight and letting his eyes unfocus. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. He leaned against the wall, boneless, sliding to the floor and slumping over in defeat.

Gwen stood over him for a long moment, silently watching his eyes go blank, then wet with tears. “I’ll... just be a few minutes,” she said carefully. “We need to find out how he, well...”

David didn’t respond.

After a half an hour had gone by, David finally moved to the landing, sitting on a lone chair underneath a second story window. A few grey clouds had rolled in, further dampening the day.

David tapped his fingers together, hunched and wild-eyed as rain pattered the window beside him. Green wallpaper run through with tiny pink roses marked the age of this place. David tried to ignore the movements, some wetter than others, behind the creaking dark wood.

“I know this is... unprecedented,” Gwen called through the doorway, “but David... there’s something else you need to see.”

“Gwen,” David sighed, sounding defeated, “I can’t... I can’t look at him right now.”

“You need to see this.”

“I've seen enough,” David replied, voice shaking.

Gwen reappeared, holding a slightly bloody pen that she’d clearly been prodding the body with. She strode quickly up to David, switching the pen to her left hand.

A crack resounded as Gwen slapped him, hard, across the face.

“David,” she snarled, “I’m telling you, as an officer of the law, I need you to  _ do your fucking job _ ,” she snarled, standing tall in front of her shaking partner.

_ My job, _ David clung to, like a spark in the darkness.

“Okay,” he spoke, standing with finality. “I'll-I-I can do this,” he stammered. “I've seen some bad things before, I can do this.” He swallowed, and led the way back into the scene of the crime.

He blanched again at the sight.

The body was wearing the same uniform he and Gwen wore. Black slacks, white button up shirt, black shoes and tie, real leather shoulder holster. Blood on the bottom of the shoes, the cuffs, the sleeves.

His hair was still tinged with green, like he'd been swimming in chlorine or the lights were wrong.

“Gwen, I can't, I, he's...”

“David,” she said sternly, crouching by the body's... by his head. “This is what you need to see.”

She poked his ear, and David flinched away as the head lolled to one side.

A sick wet peeling noise, like wax paper being pulled off a stick of half-melted butter, made David open his eyes.

And when he did, he  _ shrieked _ .

Gwen peeled the skin, the face, the parts of him that David remembered best, from the red and white of muscle and tendon and bone. It came off clean, as Gwen worked away with her pen at a few hidden stitches at the corners of the eyelids, the lips, the forehead and chin. A bare eyeball stared up at nothing, cloudy as it had begun to dry.

David ran from the room, retching, coughing up coffee and toast onto the ruined rug.

“Why would someone... sew his face on?” David heard Gwen mutter to herself.

“I can’t do this,” David groaned weakly, holding himself up with one hand on the door frame.

“Okay, okay,” Gwen agreed, wiping her hands on her pants as she hurried away from the body. “Go get a couple of senior officers, they’ll... document the deceased.”

“It’s not him,” David hissed.

Gwen wheeled around. “David, you don’t have to lie to yourself, it’s--”

“Jasper’s eyes were blue,” David insisted, taking a few more shaky steps away from the door. “Whoever that is... their eyes are green.”

\---

Gwen paced the length of the police station office, her shiny shoes, identical to David's, clicked on the rich wooden floor. The walls were painted what David had always figured was supposed to be a calming pale blue, but they were as depressing as working, confined, in a rainy day. A few other, older officers walked through, hurrying with cups of coffee and stacks of papers.

“What sick fuck goes to that length to dress up a corpse as a missing cop?” Gwen growled, slamming her fist on her desk.

“I don’t know,” David said miserably, staring down at his hands on his knees.

“It’s a threat,” Gwen continued, “or a way to taunt us. We can’t find him, why do we think we can do any other job right? Is that it?” she spat, working herself into a lather. “Or maybe it’s a reminder that we’re still looking, or that we can be fooled!”

“It... really looked like him, Gwen. It...hurt.”

Gwen went quiet, eyes darting back and forth. “Hold on,” she whispered. “It looked  _ just _ like him,” she parroted, frustration giving way to surprise. “Then the person who did this, they knew him.”

“What?” David sat up straighter. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Gwen said slowly, “we need to find why Jasper disappeared. We have to go back. Whoever did this - they knew Jasper.”

“So... we need to find Jasper, to find who killed this man - in order to find Jasper.”

“Yes.” Gwen stared down at the table, tracing the knots with her gaze. “Whatever he was doing, whatever he was looking into, that's why he disappeared. We follow him, we find all the answers.”

“How do we follow him? I...was his partner ever since the academy and I was on all his cases. I didn't disappear. It's not that. It's not... these.” David opened a drawer stacked full of manilla envelopes.

“Those are-”

“Every case we worked on. Most are still in the works. Red stamp means closed case, we assigned a sentence or collected a fine and it went on a record. The open ones were redistributed, but... I have copies. I've been through them all, a few times, since...” David waved his hand over the folders, looking downcast.

“Anything interesting?” Gwen interrupted him, an excuse to change the subject.

“Nothing that interesting. Missing dog, man who skipped out on jury duty, endless drunks. Nothing I can’t handle.” David looked up with a smile. “It’s all very... basic. Nothing that someone would  _ run _ or  _ kidnap _ over.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.” David nodded briskly.

Gwen slammed her fist on the table again, but this time, with less force. “Dead end. Shit. Okay, okay, we’ll just have to work a timeline. We’ll start where we know he last was, and we’ll work up until his disappearance. We’re bound to find a clue somewhere. We must have missed something.”

A door jangled open behind them. A tall man - thick in the chest and, now, thick in the middle with age - barged into the station like he owned the place.

Because he did.

“Commissioner Campbell!” David exclaimed. “It’s good to see you sir, I have just made a breakthrough on the Jasper case, I--” he began, standing up quickly enough to knock his chair over.

“Which...? Ah yes!” Campbell boomed over him. He laughed. “The Jasper case? I thought you solved that one already, Davey.” He grinned, a bit cluelessly. “I came to ask you to move up to the serial killer case. It’s a bit more pressing.”

“He’s been missing four months, Commissioner,” David informed him gravely. “As much as I would like to move to a bigger case, I...owe it to him. He would do the same for me.”

“An active serial killer, who has killed at least a dozen business owners, takes precedence,” Campbell said, but laughed. “Whatever you want to do, David. I just think one cop who probably ran away from stress doesn’t need nearly as many of our experienced officers as the Prophet.”

David lost his train of thought for a moment. “Is that what we’re calling him now?” He scratched his head. “Why ‘the Prophet’?”

Campbell cleared his throat nervously. He pulled David in close, and kept his voice low. “We’re not sure how he’s doing it,” Campbell muttered conspiratorially, “but he’s never been seen, and the victims never go missing. And all of them are found to be drunks. The people who want that shit gone are all religious nutjobs.” He clapped David on the back and stood straight again. “But you’ll learn more about that when you get reassigned and can read over the case files!” Campbell boomed again.

“But Jasper’s case has a body count now,” David said calmly, not looking the commissioner in the eyes.

Campbell’s demeanor changed in an instant. He blinked rapidly, shaking David’s shoulder. “What?!” he demanded, brow tight in shock, or fear. “Officer McFadden is... dead, then?”

“No, no, of course not,” David emphasized by shaking his head and waving his hands in front of him. “That’s what we wanted to tell you! They put his face on a different body!”

Campbell pinched the bridge of his nose. “David, what are you trying to say?”

“He means that someone faked Jasper’s death,” Gwen said, standing tall at her desk. “There’s a body out there,” she pointed with her full arm, “that we can’t identify, because it has the wrong face on it.”

“Yeah!” David agreed, nodding rapidly.

Campbell stood for a moment, face scrunched up in confusion. His eyes darted from Gwen to David and back. He looked at the clock, the closed door, and reached into his coat pocket. “You’re sure?”

Gwen nodded. David nodded  _ emphatically _ .

Campbell sighed and dramatically draped a hand over his face. “You know I hate to do this,” he said, “because you're right, a body count gives the case precedence, but...” he trailed off, dropping his hand, producing his wallet and badge. “I'll assign a senior investigator to it. We need as many people looking for this killer as possible,” he said again, with finality.

“Campbell, I--” David tried to plead, but the commissioner waved him off.

“Davey, I understand the sentiment!” Campbell chuckled. “Look, I am prepared to fund your move, I understand there are incidental expenses when you switch cases like this. Fuel to drive the car out to research the other crime scenes, for paperwork, hiring an assistant to sort through case files, whatever you need,” he offered, starting to count out bills.

David laughed. “Gasoline doesn't cost all that much, Commissioner! And besides, I told you, I can't give up on Jasper.”

Campbell straightened, and closed his wallet with a snap. He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Officer Larsen,” he addressed David formally, “you are moving to the Prophet case, effective immediately.”

Gwen looked from David to Campbell and back again, face pinched in confusion.

“And your partner,” Campbell quickly amended.

“But you were asking--” David argued, before Campbell cut him off.

“I'm no longer asking,” he said, looking strangely serious, “this is a direct order.”

“Uh y-yes sir,” David said quietly.

“You’ll report to me directly, both of you,” Campbell instructed them. “We don't know how this killer is evading our best efforts, but we must have discretion.”

David sighed. “Okay.”

Gwen nodded, not looking either of them in the eye.

“I expect you will be packed up by tomorrow morning,” Campbell said, before stepping out of the door and closing it hard behind him.

David flinched at the door slamming.

Gwen cursed under her breath. “He's right, of course, but. Shit, David, I know what this case means to you, we can't just... not investigate.”

“We can though. We have to. It was a direct order,” David said sadly.

Gwen scratched her forehead. “Well the way I see it, he's paying us, so we do whatever he wants on duty. But after we're off the clock,” she suggested, trailing off with a shrug. “He can't stop us from using our own time however we want.”

David thought in silence for a drawn out moment. “So we just go after work, follow up on everything we’ve found?”

“It's after work now,” Gwen pointed out, jabbing a thumb at the clock on the wall. “I want to take another look at everything we have on his disappearance.”

“It's not very much,” David warned her, “but another look, a refresher, after seeing that body today... Maybe something will click,” David reasoned, letting a hint of hope creep into his expression.

\---

Gwen picked through the cardboard box, placing the sparse effects on David’s desk. Service weapon, badge, apartment keys, change, car keys, three pieces of opened mail, a handkerchief, cufflinks, and a tie pin. She turned one of the cufflinks over in her hand a few times, then put it back down next to its plain, silver twin.

David shuffled open one of the ripped envelopes and scanned the contents for a few seconds before tossing it back on the desk and sinking into his chair. “It’s all so... normal,” he said, waving a hand over the effects. “It’s all stuff you would throw onto your kitchen counter.”

“You said the keys were in the lock, and the car was still out front?” Gwen asked, her chin propped on her palm.

“Yeah, it was really strange, we think however it happened, the entry point was a window. His door was locked from the inside, keys still in the door. Car still on the curb, and as you can see... nothing valuable taken.” David picked up a different envelope and began looking through.

“Or exit point. I mean, he could have left of his own free will,” Gwen pointed out, picking up the tie pin.

David motioned with the mail. “Yeah, but he didn’t even put on his cufflinks or tie pin. He wore those every day. He didn’t take his gun or badge either.”

“There has to be something that we’re missing. Something made him vanish, and there’s something here that will help.”

“No,” David said with a little laugh, “there’s not.” He jumped to his feet and looked everything over one last time, then pulled the storage box open and confirmed it was empty.

“We can’t give up that easily, David, something seems strange--”

“There’s not something here that will help!” David said again, victoriously. “It’s not here!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, beaming.

Gwen stood up, looking from David to the desk and back in excited confusion.

“”His wallet - it wasn’t in his apartment, it wasn’t in his car, and it wasn’t on the body!” David explained as he grabbed his coat off the back of his desk chair. “Which means,” he laughed again, “I know exactly who saw Jasper right before he disappeared!”

\---

“I still don’t understand what we’re doing,” Gwen groaned, leaning her head against the passenger-side window and watching the sky. “It’s the middle of the night and we’re staking out... what is this, a street full of closed businesses?”

“There’s a pharmacy. And a pawn shop,” David offered. “They’re closed, yes, but this is probably around the right place.”

“And this helps us find Jasper’s missing wallet how?” Gwen asked, wishing the clouds would part so she could see the street.

“He’s just a little late this morning, hold on.”

“It’s fucking morning?” Gwen swore, checking her watch.

It was, in fact, morning.

David cranked down the window and poked his arm out to adjust his mirror. The morning air after the earlier rain was still and cool, a bit foggy beneath the dim yellow streetlights.

Which is why David didn’t see the short, shuffling figure behind his car until he, too, saw David. Both of them locked eyes in the mirror for a still second of recognition, and then the hunched figure dropped a messenger bag and bolted back up the street.

“Oh crap!” David hissed, fighting to open his car door, “that’s him!”

David burst from the driver’s side of the car, hitting the sidewalk and barreling down the road at top speed in seconds. His polished shoes slapped on concrete and splashed in the shallow puddles collecting in the dips and cracks from the earlier shower.

“Wait!” David shouted at the retreating figure. “We just want to ask you a question!”

David was gaining rapidly now, feet pounding, legs much longer than the fleeing figure.

The person’s hat - squat, a newsboy style - fell from his head as he ran, revealing springy black hair and, as he looked over his shoulder to gauge David’s distance, a look of deep annoyance rather than fear.

David reached out, and with a practiced motion, scooped up the boy and tucked him under his arm.

Immediately, he started swinging with tiny child arms and legs, swearing loudly. “Fuck off, David!” he spat, loudly, in the middle of the silent sidewalk, muffled slightly by the cold fog. He struggled a bit more before falling limp, arms crossed, still spitting like a cat at the injustice of being picked up.

“Max, Max!” David called, patting his hair. “We just have a question!”

“Really?” Max started, batting away David’s hand. “Cops show up on my fucking paper route at 4 in the fucking morning, to, what was it? Ask me a question? You gotta snatch my ass off the fucking ground, David? Is that how the force asks a child a fucking question?”

“Yeah!” David said cheerfully. “Language - and I only picked you up because you ran!”

Gwen grabbed Max’s hat from the sidewalk and held it out to him until he snatched it and, still dangling, crammed it back on his head.

“What was I gonna do? Walk up to your fancy fucking car and knock on the door?”

“You could have!” David chuckled. “Then I would have just rolled down the window.”

Gwen looked from David to Max and back again. “Who’s the kid?”

“Oh right! This is Max.” David introduced him, setting him back on his feet. “Max is a little pickpocket I used to keep tabs on as a rookie, isn’t that right, Max?” David put a hand firmly on Max’s shoulder just as Max tried to take off again.

He got one step before David slid him back into place, then put his other hand on Max’s other shoulder.

“Can you ask your fucking question before my papers get soaked and you owe me for the entire eastern side?” Max groaned.

Gwen sighed, spun, and began walking the twenty or so feet down the sidewalk, hands in her coat pockets.

“So who’s the new girl?” Max asked under his breath.

David blinked, and looked down at Max. “Gwen,” he stated simply, “my new partner.”

“New...?” Max asked. “What happened to--”

“We’re looking for a wallet,” David quickly said.

Max’s face pinched in confusion, and then he snorted. “What, from me? I’m sure you are. You’ll have to go buy one, though, I don’t have anything on me, mister police officer.” He batted his lashes at David mockingly.

Gwen returned with Max’s bag, which was a bit damp on the bottom but otherwise no worse for wear. He snatched it from her hand and hefted it up over his shoulder, making David shift his grip for a moment.

“We aren’t going to arrest you or anything,” Gwen said sternly.

Max shifted at that, his expression softening for a split second before snapping back to a scowl. “Oh. Well, you’re still making me late for my route,” he grumbled.

Gwen cleared her throat. “Jasper. You remember Jasper, right?”

“We’re looking for his wallet, Max,” David prompted.

“Jasper?” Max thought for a moment, and then. “Your partner, right? He finally break up with you?” He grinned devilishly.

David blinked. “What? He went missing four months ago.”

Max looked shocked for a moment. “Missing like, missing missing?

David nodded once, downcast.

“He - it wasn’t in the papers,” he said slowly. “Okay, so you want his wallet, and you think I have it.”

“And?” David asked, leaning over Max to look at him upside down.

“I don’t have it,” Max insisted.

David’s face very quickly fell from a hopeful, gentle smile, to flat frustration.

“Four months ago?” he asked, looking up at Gwen’s serious expression. “I took it, yeah. But just to annoy David, though,” he insisted. He held out his wrists. “So you arrest me now, right?”

“I put you in a cell one time, for six hours, Max,” David sighed, but his cautiously hopeful smile returned. “We’re not arresting you.”

Max let his arms drop.

“So you don’t have it anymore?” Gwen tried, crossing her arms, glaring at David.

“I don’t have it...on me,” Max admitted. He then said something so quietly that neither David nor Gwen understood him, and jabbed a thumb behind him. “In a house,” he muttered. “I’ll show you.”

\---

Gwen opted to sit in the backseat with Max, just in case he tried to take off from a moving vehicle. David drove slowly, as usual, making his way towards the rich neighborhood on the edge of town.

“Past the big house on the hill,” Max specified with another motion. David glanced up at the old white house on the hill, up a switchback and beneath a single yellow streetlight.

It had been there for as long as David could remember, imposing and strangely fancy even for the rich part of town. The locals thought it might be haunted. He gave it a wary glance as he drove past, as usual.

Max directed him to a house in the center of a well-manicured neighborhood, two stories, surrounded by flower bushes. It had brick stairs leading up to a double doorway, surrounded by a white picket fence. It was dark, as it was so late it was early. David gave Max a once-over in confusion.

“Just pull up in front. I'll go in and get it, it'll just take a minute.” Max started crawling out of the car before it had even stopped, and Gwen put her hand out to stop him.

“And you're not just running away?” Gwen snapped, her grip tightening in Max’s shirt.

Max glared at her for a moment, before conceding. “Okay, no, that's not what this is,” he groaned, trying to pull away from her hand. “Do you want collateral? You can hold my bag if it makes you feel better,” he offered sarcastically.

“That's a good idea,” David piped up from the front seat, parking the car. “Max wouldn't leave two dollars worth of papers for the sake of running off, losing his job, all that. Would you, Max?”

Max scowled, gritting his teeth. David had him all figured out, somewhere in there. “No,” he grit out, “I fucking wouldn't.” He sighed and slipped off his bag, handing it dejectedly to Gwen.

“Thank you, Max,” David said with a smile.

Max grimaced as he got out of the car and slammed the door behind him, shoving his hands into his pockets. He started up to the door, David watching his every step.

And then he dove to the side, hiking between the flower bushes and climbing masterfully up a trellis and onto the first floor roof. From there he slipped around to the back of the house and out of sight.

David put his head down on the steering wheel. “I really thought, this time,” he grumbled, closing his eyes in disappointment. 

Gwen exhaled loudly. “Great, our one lead...”

“I could have insisted on going with,” David said without raising his head.

“I saw this coming, somehow,” Gwen grumbled, looking at her watch again. “Why did we do this, exactly?”

“I don't know where he lives, Gwen, I just know the area he delivers papers in. It's the same place he picks pockets.”

“And I could be sleeping right now,” Gwen groaned.

Something moved. Gwen watched as a tiny, hooded figure crossed to the front of the first floor roof, and after positioning himself just right, he hopped down to the top of the brick stairs and started approaching the car.

“Well, uh,” Gwen started, “it seems to have worked.” She pointed.

David lifted his head in surprise.

Max walked to the driver's side, and knocked on the window. David rolled it down and beamed at him.

He produced a leather wallet.

“Uh, the cash is gone,” Max warned them. “I think he had four dollars on him at the time, if that helps anything. I left everything else in there though, I swear.”

“No, no, that's fine,” David assured him. “You did good. I have a few questions about where he was and what he was doing when you lifted this--”

“I'm very late for my paper route,” Max said testily. “He wasn't doing anything weird and he was right about where you picked me up on my route, can I please do my damn job?” Max groaned.

“You've been very helpful, Max,” David assured him cheerily. “I'll drive you back.”

“You owe me a bike if you want anything else out of me,” Max muttered as he returned to his seat beside Gwen.

David smiled, tucking the wallet into his coat until he had a brighter light.

\---

“Coffee,” Gwen groaned, slumping in her chair.

David put the wallet on the table, and exhaled slowly.

Gwen shook her head. “Coffee first, or there's no hope of me having any clue what I'm looking at,” she grumbled.

The little tea shop they had stopped in hadn't been their first choice, but the café they typically frequented for good strong coffee had closed a few weeks ago. The Blue Peacock - a long building with blue awnings and a beautiful metal peacock sculpture over the doorway - had suddenly closed its doors, so they now sat in a neighboring business, The American Room. Where The Blue Peacock had been homey and simply elegant, The American Room was kitschy and filled with identical wooden stools and sticky tables. It was mostly empty at this hour, the sun just rising over the concrete tenements.

David waved a hand, flagging down a tired-looking waitress. He smiled with understanding.

“Yes?” she asked, pulling a pencil out from behind her ear. “What can I get you folks?”

“Coffee, please,” David requested politely. “A full pot, black, two mugs. And some sugar for me, please.”

“Coming right up,” she said without writing anything down, and disappeared into the back.

David tapped his fingers on the table, his leg bouncing with nerves. “This is the first lead we've had in a long time,” he explained. “It just has to lead us somewhere.”

“It doesn't have to do anything, David,” Gwen sighed. “It's a wallet.”

David looked like a kicked puppy. She was right, of course, but it... just had to help.

Gwen vigorously scrubbed a hand over her eyes. “You know I didn't mean it like that, David. It's something we didn't have before. Now we have a fuller picture of his day, at least.”

David sat quietly, leg still bouncing. He stared at the wallet as if pleading with it.

“Just let me get some coffee,” Gwen grumbled again. “We'll figure something out.”

On cue, the waitress pushed her way into the dining room with a pair of mugs, a massive pot of black coffee, and a small box of sugar cubes. She set each item out in front of them, making sure to put the sugar in front of David.

Gwen grabbed the coffee almost before the waitress had set it down, pouring a cup, and burning her mouth on it. “Mmh,” she groaned out in disappointment, and kept drinking.

David poured a cup for himself, dropping in a sugar cube or five and stirring. He sat quietly, waiting until Gwen had poured herself a second cup and managed to wait for it to cool.

“You ready?” he asked, putting his palm on the wallet.

Gwen looked into her coffee as if searching for an answer. “Yeah,” she finally said, putting her chin on her hand and her elbow on the table.

David exhaled slowly, and opened the wallet.

“Max admitted to taking the cash, so...” David said, opening the bill pouch and confirming that it was empty. “Four dollars is a fairly normal amount of pocket change though,” he reasoned.

He pulled out a couple of official-looking cards - drivers license and a rewards card for The Blue Peacock - and a few handwritten notes, all of which looked like grocery lists. He pulled out a button and a couple of business cards for an auto shop and a pharmacy.

And then he found it.

A playing card. One often used in solitaire and games of chance. An ace of spades.

And on it, one dried drop of blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title this time is from Tape Five's "Dixie Biscuit" and if you can figure out the reference (it's a doozy) you get a gold star
> 
> For reference: $4 in 1921 had the same value as about $56 in 2018. Max made like a bandit on that one.
> 
> Please leave me a review if you enjoyed, even a keysmash goes a long way for my motivation!


	2. Hey, hey, this is the one (Today's the day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where David is Obvious, Gwen malfunctions, and Max manages to steer them both without actually appearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait guys, I got super sick for a month. In return, I bring you a chapter almost twice as long as the last and I'm also halfway done with chapter 3!
> 
> Chapter title is from Lucky Day by 11 Acorn Lane. I do highly recommend you give the chapter title songs a quick listen if you get the chance and like swing music, they're some of my favorites!

“A playing card means a card game.”

“Obviously, David, how is that supposed to help?” Gwen leaned back in the car seat, massaging her head.

“We’re looking for a casino,” David pointed out confidently. This seemed obvious to him, but he didn’t know where to go from there.

“Casinos have been outlawed for, what, a decade at least,” Gwen said with a roll of her eyes. “We’re not just going to _find_ a casino.”

David sat back, almost audibly thinking. “Well, what about a... one of those... wet tea shops?” he pieced together, referring to the restaurants, cafes, and actual tea houses which sold alcohol after hours.

“Why would--” Gwen started, and cut herself off, understanding spreading across her face. “Ah, those are also illegal. Underground bars, underground casinos. I guess they could go hand in hand.”

David nodded, the parked car shaking a bit with his emphasis.

“And how do you suggest we find a tea shop? They’re hard to track down too, even with undercover officers,” Gwen pointed out. “And even assuming we’re right and this card is from a casino that is part of a tea house, all of which is a big, _big_ if, then we also have to find the right one. I’m under no illusions that casinos are rare in this city. And even _that_ is assuming we can find any at all.” She slumped over in her chair with a sigh. “So we’re back to square one.”

David looked over at Gwen, and then down, to study the spade between his fingers. The make seemed classic, old, the black ink fading in places to blue. But the blood looked deliberate, smudged rather than splattered.

“We could ask,” he said quietly, almost thoughtlessly.

Gwen snorted. “Ask? Just ask around? Just go to every business in the city, knock on the doors, ask if there’s an illegal casino being operated after-hours?” she groused.

“No, no,” David said. “Max only delivers newspapers to a certain part of the east side, and only to residential areas. His route only passes a few business areas. And he probably saw Jasper on his route, so...”

Gwen blinked, eyes wide. She was silent for a moment, and then sat forward in her chair. “I never in my life thought I would say these words, so listen closely.”

David nodded solemnly.

“You’re a goddamn genius.”

He beamed up at her tiredly. “I could be wrong, but. We can’t give up. Jasper, he--”

“He wouldn’t give up if it had been you, I know.” She gently patted his shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

\---

David pulled up to a familiar spot. The grey concrete, streetlights now extinguished in the daylight, the rain dried in the morning sun. A light breeze blew a leaf and a bit of rubbish across the sidewalk. He smiled upon spotting the exact tile they had picked Max up from just hours ago.

“He’s going to be so mad if he sees the car,” Gwen laughed.

“Well, we’re not here for him,” David said, opening Jasper’s wallet and taking out the business cards inside. He pointed at two in particular. “We know Jasper frequented this area - here, the Blue Peacock, the pharmacy. We just ask around on this street, do a bit of poking. I’m pretty sure, somewhere down this block, there’s a business with a casino in it. And Jasper wanted me to pay attention and go there.”

“For the casino, you think?” Gwen asked, straightening her tie.

David looked at the spade again. “That seems too easy. I don’t think Jasper would disappear because of a casino.”

Gwen stepped out of the car, buttoning her long coat tightly against the wind.

“Pharmacy first?” David suggested, pointing to the little brick building, painted white.

“Sure, but, it’s a pharmacy.”

“Right!” David agreed. “They _sell alcohol._ With a prescription.”

“How, exactly, do you know that?” Gwen wondered aloud.

David got out of the driver’s seat, checking to make sure his gun was safely hidden inside his coat. “I got to bring in Commissioner Campbell’s prescription as a trainee.”

“Of _course_ Campbell has a booze prescription,” Gwen groaned.

David buttoned up his coat and turned up his collar. “You don’t like him much, do you?” he chuckled.

“And you do, for some reason.”

“Well, yeah,” David said as if it was obvious. “He’s been the police commissioner pretty much forever. He _is_ the force around here. You have to admire that.”

Gwen motioned to herself. “I don’t really fit in with what ‘The Force’ looks like around here.”

David blinked. “Why not? You’re-- you work hard, and you’re a good person.”

Gwen tapped the toe of her shiny black shoe against the sidewalk. She didn’t say anything, and slammed the car door.

David tipped a hat onto his head, and followed suit.

“Okay,” Gwen sighed, and jerked her thumb at the pharmacy. “There first?”

“Yeah, and we just work our way down this street.” David tucked his hands into his coat pockets.

“Lead on, bossman,” Gwen yawned.

\---

A bell chimed over David’s head as he pushed his way into the little building, which announced it was “Proudly family owned!” on a handwritten sign taped to the door. The inside stood clean and organized. Even though David rarely stepped into a pharmacy because he tended to be as healthy as a horse, he remembered the sterile counters, the floors washed with bleach and lemon juice, the precise labels on perfectly aligned bottles of every concoction known to man.

“Is that a bookshelf?” Gwen hissed in surprise, nodding to a section near the back of the store adjacent to the pharmacy counter.

Sure enough, a little waiting area had been set up with a rug, a few wooden chairs, and what looked like library shelves covered in dense books. A man - balding, with glasses - sat in one of the chairs, intently studying a red book with a picture of a marble bust on the cover.

“I guess he likes philosophy,” David shrugged, as if that explained anything at all.

“Hello,” Gwen piped up, waving at the cash register area - a room behind the counter with shelf after shelf of medication bottles arranged in neat rows, where someone was rummaging around. There was stillness, and then a young boy, hunched and nervous, popped his head over the edge of the counter.

“Uh, hello,” he said, stepping up on a stool in front of the cash register.

David noted his curly head of sandy hair and his red store apron.

Gwen noted that he looked to be, like, ten.

David stepped further into the store, smiling. “Hi! We just came in because we had a few questions about your stocked medications--”

“We wanted to buy some, if you have them, he means,” Gwen cut in, giving David a Look.

David turned to her, eyes lighting up. “Yeah, yeah, is your uh, do you have an older brother?” He stepped closer and raised onto his tiptoes, peering behind the counter. “Someone in who can answer--”

“My father is currently,” he trailed off with a sigh. “Indisposed.”

Gwen glanced at the man with his nose in his book.

“But, I assure you, we have over fifty-seven kinds of medications that I can blend for any cough, cold, ache, pain, or ailment,” the boy said confidently, immediately annoyed.

Gwen raised her eyebrows.

“Oh,” David said dumbly, freezing like a scared animal with a wooden smile on his face.

“Well, color me impressed,” Gwen muttered, sidling up to the counter. “Pardon him,” she said, motioning to David. “My friend is a bit of an idiot.”

“I am not,” the boy replied coolly, “and that was obvious. My name is Neil, how can I be of assistance?” He leaned on the counter, motioning to the shelves behind him.

“Do you sell-- or, no, vend liquor? With a prescription I mean?” Gwen asked, her voice hushed.

“Of course?” Neil replied, his volume still normal. “Same as every pharmacy in the city. Do you have a prescription?”

“No, sadly,” Gwen grumbled.

Neil motioned to David with his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you could use one.”

David didn’t catch the look or Gwen’s snort as he stared around at the strange names on some of the bottles. Menthol, lidocaine, cannabis, methadone, and on and on. He knew menthol at least.

“How much do you go through in a week?” Gwen continued.

“Alcohol?” Neil clarified, his eyebrows raising. He glanced from Gwen to David, and the gears turned in his head. “Well, _officers,_ ” he snipped, tapping his fingers on the counter, “my father--” he pointed to the man transfixed by his philosophy book, “just turned in our records for last month when the police commissioner was in three days ago, and I assure you, it hasn’t changed noticeably since then.” He clapped his hands together. “If you need any more information about things that are not your prescriptions, you’ll need a warrant.”

“Okay,” Gwen groaned, “that’s fair, but we really are just interested in looking around in a, um, mostly non-professional capacity?” she tried.

“You’re welcome to browse,” Neil bit out, already stepping down from the stool and meandering into the back.

Gwen craned her head to watch him slip behind the shelves to a long table covered in what looked like lab equipment - tubes, beakers, stir sticks, Bunsen burners - and began stirring and pouring and mixing. She blinked, and looked back over at the boy’s father, who was still riveted by his philosophy book.

“The kid’s practically running this joint,” she muttered in David’s direction.

He didn’t reply.

Gwen turned, and... David wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. She hadn’t heard him leave.

“David?” she called, wandering down one of the two aisles in the tiny store, lined with lancets for boils and tins of premade bandages and shampoos medicated with coal oil.

The bell above the door tinkled. Gwen spun, hoping to catch David before he could disappear again.

Only, it wasn’t David.

A blond woman - skin dark like Gwen’s - stepped tiredly into the store, pointedly ignoring everything and bee-lining her way to the counter.

Gwen sagged a bit in defeat, her hands shaking. The entire shop was only tens of feet on each side, one floor, and David clearly wasn’t in here.

“Um, yes, the same as usual?” Gwen heard Neil ask from one aisle over.

“I need double my usual sutures today,” the woman drawled, sounding as tired as she looked.

Gwen’s ears perked up. Sutures... they were only used in hospitals or clinics to stitch people back up after major surgeries or terrible injury. And if their serial killer, the Prophet, had ever botched a kill... the victim would end up in a hospital. Gwen understood patient confidentiality - doctors couldn’t report to the police even if they found a patient’s wounds suspicious, and as soon as the killer found out someone had survived, they would be silenced.

An asset in the medical field could be crucial to this case, Gwen decided.

And besides, where did she get her pink boots?

“One more of those rubber hoses, thank you, I managed to split an old one this week,” the beautiful stranger mumbled.

Gwen poked her head out to listen.

“That will be three dollars and seventy-eight cents, miss,” Neil said politely, before finishing punching it into the cash register. $3.78 popped up on the number panels as the drawer popped open with a chime.

She paid in exact change, which Neil carefully placed in the register, and then nodded to Neil respectfully.

“Hoses are--”

“Yeah, I got it,” she called, stepping towards the aisles.

After a split second of panic, Gwen realized the rubber hoses - the kind used for Bunsen burners and tourniquets - were down this aisle. Flustered, she grabbed one and held it out as the stranger rounded the corner.

“Uh, sorry,” Gwen said quickly, “I overheard, and I just wanted to say, those are _really_ nice boots.”

The woman looked up in surprise, but instead of the tired dismissal Gwen felt she deserved, her face lit up.

“Oh, these old things?” She chuckled, her laugh soft and sweet like bells. “Well, thank you, um,” she offered, holding out her palm.

“It, it’s,” Gwen stammered and froze, wondering if she should use her real name for a split second before panic set in. “Gwen, it’s Gwendolyn, really, but friends call me Gwen,” she blurted out in one breath while handing over the rubber tubing.

The woman laughed with her mouth closed this time. “That’s funny, I’m Jennifer. But friends call me Jen. Gwen and Jen!” she chirped, taking the hose. “I’m super into fashion actually?” she continued, tucking it into her cute black bag, “but my work makes me wear these gross old smocks. Guess I don’t want to get old people juice on my nice shirts, but still, could they be more ugly?”

Said smock was hidden under Jen’s long, seasonal coat, but Gwen could imagine.

“Old people...juice?” Gwen repeated in concern.

“Yeah, people are just so leaky when they die,” Jen said with another little laugh. “Too many holes, most of the time. That’s a lot of my job, sewing all the holes shut.”

“Wait,” Gwen cut in, her eyebrows drawn together, “...when they die? Does that mean you work at a hospital?”

“Nah, tried nursing, didn’t like it. I’m over at a funeral home down the way, actually. Couple blocks over. I clean up dead folks real good, make them pretty one last time for their families. It’s good closure.”

“Sounds... depressing,” Gwen tried.

“It’s not so bad,” Jen smiled. “Somebody has to do it. And dead people are better listeners than the living ones. Mostly,” she added, glancing up and down Gwen’s form.

Gwen shifted from foot to foot. “So, do you ever, um, do any processing?” Her heart pounded against her ribcage, but this was it.

“You mean like, for the cops?” Jen drawled. “No, no. Sometimes we get after-hours drop offs, but that’s easily the weirdest part of my work week.”

“Oh,” Gwen mumbled, trying to hide her disappointment.

“My _work_ week,” Jen repeated with a wink. “You here to meet Kevin?”

“No, I,” Gwen started, and then remembered suddenly. David. “I actually just lost my--” Partner? That implied she was a cop, so... “My friend, I think he went out the front when I wasn’t looking.”

“He might have gone out the back,” Jen drawled again, turning to the door.

Gwen could have kicked herself. Of course. “Um, thank you, Jen.”

“Good luck finding your friend, Gwendolyn,” she replied over her shoulder as she pushed her way out the front door.

Gwen watched as Jen fished a cigarette from her inner pocket and lit it, popping her collar to shield the ember from the wind, and then started on her way without looking back.

Gwen was surprised to feel even more disappointed.

But, David.

\---

“The police commissioner was in three days ago,” Neil was saying, but David wasn’t listening.

A man with green eyes, an unshaven beard, and his hands tucked into his coat pockets poked his head in through a little back door, locked eyes with David, and _bolted._

On instinct, David took off after him. His surprise was drowned out by sheer curiosity. He tapped away from Gwen and Neil’s conversation without a word, managing to stick his fingers in the door before it could swing closed all the way.

He slipped out soundlessly, closing the door with care. He glanced to either direction and caught movement about half a block down on the right. The man darted behind a building, and David started after him at a brisk walk. He tipped his hat further down his face, just in case.

He passed an auto shop, then a small grocer, and as he crossed the alleyway between businesses, movement across the street caught his eye.

A front door, swinging closed. It led to a pawn shop named “Kevin’s Pawn,” which had a surprising amount of shop for a pawn shop.

Curious still, David looked both ways before crossing the street. He still walked with a slow, measured pace, hoping not to scare whoever this guy was.

Little foot traffic went through this part of the city, and even fewer cars. He wove his way around a single car parked out front, and made his way to the front door.

The sign had been flipped to “Sorry, we’re Closed,” but David tried the doorknob anyways.

Unlocked.

He let himself into the unlit interior. Grey sunlight filtered through the storefront’s tall windows, where dusty shades had been half-drawn. The oddities lining the shelves cast alien shadows across the silent room, which appeared undisturbed. David took a step towards the front desk. The wooden floor creaked.

“Hello?” David called, putting his hand into his coat and on the grip of his concealed gun just in case.

From behind the desk lined with glass display cases, the man David had been following slowly stood, hands raised. It looked as though he’d been hiding, crouched, behind it, and he seemed way more shaken by David’s appearance than David thought he deserved.

“I don’t want no trouble,” the man spoke, his voice gruff.

“Sorry, I don’t either,” David replied kindly, taking his hand out of his coat.

The man put his hands back down. “So, I’m not in trouble?” he asked, giving David a once-over.

“I mean, unless you’re trespassing inside this pawn shop,” David pointed out, quirking up an eyebrow.

The man blinked. “It’s _my_ shop,” he confessed. “Kevin’s Pawn. Name’s Kevin.”

“Okay, then what were you doing at the pharmacy that you had to run off for?” David asked calmly, still holding his hands at his sides.

“Cops, um. Make me nervous,” he explained quickly, his eyes flicking to where David’s concealed gun sat under his arm.

“It’s that obvious?” David sounded a little hurt.

Kevin shrugged. “Cops are always in pairs. Got sensible polished shoes. Pressed wool coats, matching. Definitely cops.” He scratched at his beard.

David thought about it for a moment, picturing what he and Gwen looked like side by side. Both thin and in shape, identical scowls from exhaustion, matching coats and slacks and shoes a mark nicer than the general public. Yeah, they definitely looked like cops. He wasn’t sure how he didn’t see that before.

“You gonna arrest me for gettin’ nervous around cops?” Kevin snarked, offering his wrists over the glass case.

“Why does everyone think--” David started, and then he saw past Kevin’s dirty hands and down into the display case.

Kevin had locked a few higher-priced items into the case for security purposes. David saw a silver pocket watch on a chain, a ladies’ cigarette holder, three rings all set with a different kind of stone, a silk pocket square, a bug in amber. But more interestingly to David, the case had been spruced up with a few miscellaneous items - a pair of dice showing a 2 and a 5, a few chipped and likely decommissioned poker chips, and a smattering of playing cards.

Playing cards with black ink so old it had faded in places to blue.

“Where,” David pointed down into the case, “did you get those?”

“Ah, a gentleman of discernin’ tastes,” Kevin rumbled, rubbing his hands together. “The pocket watch only recently became part of my collection, and--”

“No, no, I mean, it’s a very nice timepiece, but.” David cut him off, pointing harder. “Those cards.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not illegal to own playing cards. Solitaire is a popular pastime. Besides, I don’t even have a full set. There’s no game of chance in the world that can be played with nothin’ but an ace of hearts, eight and a six and a two of spades, and--”  
David shook his head, and pulled Jasper’s wallet from his front pocket.

“Whoa, hey,” Kevin cut himself off, ducking, before realizing David had pulled out a wallet and not a gun.

“This,” David took out the ace of spades with a flourish, “was found at, uh, a crime scene.” Not technically untrue, he told himself.

“Buddy, everybody in the city’s got cards like that, that’s, uh, that’s called circumstantial, that’s not enough to go on, that’s, uh...” Kevin trailed off, looking at the drop of blood smeared over the spade. “Okay, um, sometimes people just bring in boxes of junk and I buy the lot for a couple cents or a dollar and sometimes this stuff is just in it. It’s decoration, spruces the place up a bit,” he explained, waving his hands as he spoke.

“Do you mind if I take a look around?” David asked, returning the card to the wallet.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m technically on lunch, but... Uh, officer, can I at least ask what you’re lookin’ for? What this is all about?”

David stood up straighter. “I’m on a case,” he explained, “and this card is my one lead.” He turned away from Kevin and started digging through a box of old children’s toys beside a stack of antiquated math texts.

“So, you lookin’ for a body? I don’t got any bodies,” Kevin reassured David. “Or maybe a murder weapon? I got some old kitchen knives you can look through.”

“I am hoping to find my friend alive, sir.”

Kevin blinked. “Oh. Oh shit, kid, I, I thought this was about the serial killer shit,” Kevin admitted. “I mean, I do vet my clients who pawn weapons, and I got a list made up of everyone who’s ever bought one. Always hoped it would discourage killings, but. You can’t always know what someone will do with a steak knife.”

David swallowed. He thought of Jasper, his face peeling away - he thought of yesterday, he realized with a sickening lurch in his stomach. Yesterday, when Jasper had been dead, for one horrible half an hour.

“He’s not dead, sir. Just missing,” David spoke quietly, still facing away.

“Huh,” Kevin grunted, leaning back against the wall behind his desk. “Well, uh, holler if you need anything. I’ll just be here, supervising.” Kevin took a metal cigarette case from his hip pocket, and flicked it open.

David kept digging, unsure of what he was looking for. He lifted a lamp and checked under the shade, then set it back down to nudge a rocking horse with his shoe. He idly pushed a spare can of hair gel from one side of a shelf to the other. He walked to the back and found a stack of chipped china beside a used shoe shining kit. On the wall hung ties, bow ties, silk handkerchiefs, socks, and sock garters, all in rows much neater than David expected from a man who was now smoking in his own dusty shop. David found a modest rack of clothing and thumbed through it, noting a particularly handsome waistcoat and that every item’s pockets were crammed full of mothballs, and nothing more interesting.

He sighed. None of this was helpful. Other than a few things, this was pretty much exclusively dusty old junk. He took the card out again, studying it once more.

He realized maybe he had jumped to conclusions. There were many more shops to check between here and the other end of Max’s route. This one didn’t necessarily have to be important.

But something about it was bothering him.

Jasper. Jasper had taught David not to jump to conclusions, actually.

When David had just joined the force, only days out of the academy, he’d been surprised to be assigned a partner the same age as him, who had joined the academy two years before he had. But he quickly understood Campbell’s wisdom. They got along like peanut butter and jelly, David high strung but with good instincts and Jasper laid back but meticulous. Jasper liked finding the truth because it was a truth, and because it was interesting. And he’d told David on case after case not to jump to conclusions - but not to ignore them either. To know that the leap in logic was your insight trying to make sense of something. You were onto something, but it may not be what you were looking for.

Find what is bothering you, and then find out why.

David looked down at the wallet, the card. They _felt_ okay. His conclusions _felt_ okay.

But this place, this pawn shop - something about it set him off. Something about Kevin, sure, but more importantly, the location. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

With a frustrated sigh, he made his way back over to the register to look at the playing cards, the display case.

“Any luck, buddy?” Kevin asked, opening an eye.

“Mm,” David hummed, deep in thought. “You run a pretty organized shop,” he pointed out carefully.

“I try,” Kevin said, exhaling curling smoke.

“But you don’t... clean?” David asked, holding up his hands, which were dusty from browsing the store.

Kevin scratched his neck. “Yeah, never been good at that,” he admitted, exhaling another cloud of smoke.

And that, again, felt weird.

David blinked as he watched the smoke rise and curl and... while it should have clouded the room, it seemed to be...filtering out behind Kevin. It seeped out around a portion of the wall. One specific panel. The one Kevin stood in front of.

Guarding it.

“Excuse me, sir,” David spoke up. “What’s behind you?”

“Huh?” Kevin stood straighter, blinking.

“That part of the wall isn’t solid, so, what are you hiding?” David tried again, managing to sound curious and not cocky.

“Uh, hey, I mean, if you want these cards I can just give them to you, pal, on the house, it’s just, I gotta open up shop, got a business to run here, you see.”

“I understand. The quicker you show me what you’re hiding, the quicker I can find what my missing friend wanted me to see, and the quicker I’ll leave.” David’s smile was tired, but honest.

“Officer, uh, well, this isn’t what you think,” Kevin stammered, holding up his hands, cigarette still smoldering between his fingers.

“I’m not sure what to think,” David sighed. “But please, show me what this is.”

“Okay, alright, um.” Kevin slumped. “Well, fuck, at this point I guess I’m getting arrested either way, uh...” He took another drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out on his desk, watching David calmly watching him. “Okay, uh, buddy. Here goes.”

Kevin turned his back to David for the first time since entering the store, and placed both hands on the panel. He pushed, and it sunk about two inches into the wall with a sharp click. Kevin then slid it towards the back of the store on a track like an oriental-style screen. It disappeared neatly behind the next panel over, revealing a dark space behind the wall.

“You want to go first?” Kevin offered, “or should I?” He glanced warily again at the gun tucked under David’s arm.

“What is this?” David asked. “Why do you need a secret room?”

Kevin scrubbed his face, and David heard him mutter “...double-damned if I don’t...”

He hesitated, and then took one step inside. Something squeaked as he fiddled with it, and then light flickered to life in the small, dark space.

Kevin dragged a hand through his hair and sighed, not looking at David as he finished lighting the small oil lamp. He lifted it to chest height, and suddenly, David could see the top of a flight of stairs.

“You have a secret basement?” David beamed, his curiosity flaring straight up into excitement. For a moment, he forgot all of the consequences, all of the murder in the city, all of the the danger, and suddenly he was a child again, finding buried treasure, solving the mystery, being the hero.

“Uh, something like that,” Kevin grumbled, the hope quickly draining out of him.

David reached inside his coat and dug around to his hip. Kevin looked nervous for a moment, until David produced a set of handcuffs, and then his face fell.

“Been doin’ this almost a decade, and I get arrested by some kid,” he groaned, but held out his wrists.

“Right or left?” David asked, holding up one of the two cuffs and letting the other one dangle.

”What?”

“Right handed or left handed?” David tried again.

“Oh, uh, right?” Kevin said, confused.

David grabbed and cuffed Kevin’s left wrist, and then hooked the other cuff around his own right. “Okay, lead the way!” he chirped.

Kevin looked baffled for a long moment, but shook it off. “Yeah, uh, sure.” He stepped down the first few stairs, holding the small lantern in front of him. At the bottom of the stairs stood a door, which led to the right under the back of the store.

Kevin held his cuffed arm up and almost over his shoulder, to make it easier for David to follow - and less likely that he would break his own wrist.

They made their way down the echoing stairs, every footfall like a hammer blow. David craned, trying to see where Kevin was leading him, what could be so important to keep secret. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up.

Kevin stepped to the bottom landing, and swore under his breath as he opened the door.

“Well, uh,” he motioned with the lantern, here’s... everything.”

David skirted around him and into this secret basement, and froze. His eyes wide, he took in the contents of the dark room.

A bar, to his right. A stage straight ahead, with open floor in front of it. On the far right, a few diner booths had been installed - cheap vinyl seats and all. The corner booth had a round table and seating for maybe ten?

And right in the center of everything, three small circular tables with sunken tops inside an outer shelf, covered in cheap green felt.

Casino tables.

“My _word,_ ” David hissed in awe. He took two excited steps before the handcuff chain snapped tight.

“Shit...!” Kevin lurched after him.

David didn’t answer. He stared over the tables as the excitement curdled to dread. This is where it had happened. This is what Jasper wanted him to find.

But, why?

What was the point?

“You saw my friend, didn’t you?” David asked quickly, his tone unreadable.

Kevin gave a gruff, nervous little laugh. “I, uh, don’t know what you mean, kid.”

“He was police. My partner.”

Kevin’s eyebrows rose.

“He went missing a few months ago and... the only clue he left me was this card.” David patted the wallet. “Someone knows where he is,” he continued cryptically.

Kevin squirmed. “Well I think I’ve shown that I’ll, uh, cooperate,” he muttered under his breath. “What did he look like?”

“I have a photograph actually.” David fished out a second wallet, this one his own. He had an old mugshot of Jasper from the police academy, which he pulled from behind two one-dollar bills and a few coins.

Kevin took David’s wrist and squinted down at the black and white photo, holding up his lantern. And after a tense wait, Kevin’s eyes widened just a hair in recognition.

“Yeah, I mean, I think I saw someone who looked like that in here once, maybe twice? Months ago,” Kevin offered.

David sucked in a breath. “How many months ago?” he pressed, his stare boring into Kevin with an intensity he hadn’t predicted from the young officer.

“Buddy, whoa, it was a while now, don’t remember exactly, like three, four months? Could have been five. Definitely not six,” Kevin rattled off, counting on his fingers.

“Anything weird happen that night?” David stepped closer, grabbing Kevin’s upper arms.

“No, no, I barely remember him! I swear!”

“Are you certain? Nothing strange?” David insisted, shaking Kevin.

“Let me think, let me think!” Kevin shouted back, face red even in the gentle glow of the lantern.

David studied his face for a long, tense moment. Kevin didn’t dare move.

“Alright,” David sighed, letting go of Kevin’s arms and deflating.

Kevin scratched again at his beard.”I guess there was one thing.”

David brightened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kevin grumbled. “Someone made off with like ten cards from one deck that night. Guess I finally found out who.”

David stood baffled for a moment, trying to fit together the pieces.

Jasper had stolen a handful of cards from a casino table in a wet tea house. _Why?_ Jasper had disappeared because of something here. _What was it?_ Someone had the next step. _Who?_

Why was only one card in Jasper’s wallet if he’d pocketed ten?

“And you never found any of these cards again? On the floor, or outside maybe?” David asked, gently this time, his eyes not leaving the green felt on the table closest to him.

“No, not one. The cards in the case upstairs are from that deck. It’s useless if it’s missing most of a suit.”

“What suit?”

“Uhh, almost all the clubs were gone. And then that ace of spades you’ve got, which is... kind of important.” Kevin scratched his head. “Look, kid, you ever play solitaire?”

“No sir, I thought card games were illegal?” David hadn’t read too many of the specific laws he hadn’t needed yet, and couldn’t remember which one was solitaire.

“ _Gambling_ on card games is illegal. Solitaire isn’t a betting game, bud.” Kevin reached into his pocket for his cigarette case again. “And a deck is pretty worthless missing a whole suit, even for solitaire.”

“Okay, okay,” David hummed tiredly. “This doesn’t make sense. There should be something here. A next step. But I can’t... see anything.”

Kevin pulled out a cigarette and set it between his lips, then lit it with the oil lantern. David watched the flame catch the paper, then smolder on the packed, rolled tobacco leaves.

“I’ll have to see it when it’s open.” David punched his hand into his palm, handcuffs jingling.

Kevin coughed. “What?”

David worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, thinking. “I... won’t arrest you, even though I should,” he said slowly. “I really need to know what happened to Jasper. We’re...both doing something illegal, I guess.” David smiled, but it looked hollow.

“Okay, kid, okay,” Kevin grunted, but looked pleased. “You want a smoke or anything?”

“No, thank you,” David refused politely. “I don't like the smell.”

“I guess it's a bit of an... acquired taste,” Kevin shrugged.

“A taste you can acquire in a tea house?” David raised an eyebrow.

“Speakeasy,” Kevin said smoothly through a cloud of smoke, graciously blown towards the ceiling.

“I'm... sorry?”

“Only cops call 'em tea houses. The patrons call them speakeasies. They're supposed to be able to speak easy here, both in the sense of not getting arrested and because alcohol tends to loosen lips.” Kevin took another pull from his cigarette. “So, uh, I hope you understand why you gotta call it a speakeasy when you're here.”

“To blend in?”

“Yeah, so you don't get stabbed, pal.” Kevin smiled. “I mean, most of my patrons are good people, but you know what they say about scared, cornered animals.”

“But you'd do it?” David asked hopefully, “You could sneak us in?”

“Whoa, who’s 'us’?”

 _Gwen_ , David thought, and blanched. “My partner, oh gosh, I left her in the pharmacy,” David stammered, glancing at the door.

“Her?” Kevin squinted in confusion and stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his scuffed shoe.

“Not the one who disappeared,” David clarified. “I got reassigned.”

“Well, cops are always in pairs,” Kevin grumbled, now grinding his shoe against the floorboards to dislodge the ash. “I haven't met her, so I'm not sneaking her in. Nothing personal, you just need to blend in. For my sake too. Can you guess what would happen if the regulars found out I just let a cop down there?”

David exhaled, letting it whistle through his lips. “I can guess.”

“We’re gonna have to trust each other a lot for this,” Kevin grunted. “Because you don't know how to be in a speakeasy, and I might have someone dangerous in my damn bar. So we'll help each other, yeah? Cause otherwise we might die trying.”

David considered it for less than a second before holding out his hand. “Anything to know what I'm looking for,” he agreed, looking just as exhausted as he felt.

Kevin took his hand and shook it. 

David stood silently for a moment after the agreement had been made, his stomach churning. This was illegal. This was _very_ illegal. And he'd agreed to it.

For Jasper. He would have done the same thing for David.

And he quashed the panic down as quickly as it had risen.

David fished something small and silver out of his coat pocket and unlocked his handcuff. “Alright,” he sighed, and unlatched Kevin's side too.

“Eleven o'clock,” Kevin grumbled in thanks.

“What?”

“I open at eleven o'clock, be here fashionably late. Dress to the nines - like you’re trying to get laid, ditch the gun, and come alone.” He held David's gaze for a long moment, and then started heading back the way they'd came.

David swallowed audibly. “I'll try not to get stabbed,” he tried to joke, but his laugh came out awkward and scared.

“Good goal, kid,” Kevin said over his shoulder, and opened the door.

\---

“Gwen!” David called breathlessly, spotting her standing near the car.

Gwen looked up in shock. “David, Jesus, where did you go? You disappeared an hour ago!” She motioned angrily at the pharmacy across the street.

“I, we,” David stammered, suddenly shaking. “Car,” he squeaked, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door.

Gwen followed suit, looking very concerned for David's well-being.

The instant she slammed her door closed, David spoke again.

“I found it,” David hissed. “The pawn shop, it's... I'm going there tonight,” he explained, his hands shaking where he gripped his coat.

She digested this statement for a long moment.

“The tea house is in the pawn shop?” Gwen said slowly. “Should we bring this to Campbell? You know, because of his campaign, cracking down on crime and public drunkenness. It would definitely get us both promoted.”

David shook his head, looking like he might cry. “It's my-- our only chance,” he grit out. And then, after a beat, “Am I a bad cop, Gwen?”

She stared blankly down at the steering wheel. “You're tired, David. We're both tired. We have to pack up for Campbell, but then... Let's both go home, sleep on it, and afterwards I want you to explain _why_ you disappeared at the pharmacy and _everything_ after that.”

“Okay, yeah,” David nodded in agreement, and then, “crap, I forgot he wanted us to move everything.”

“I can’t believe he’s making us switch cases like this,” Gwen sighed.

“Right when there’s a break in the case that we can’t tell him about,” David agreed, lightly slapping the glove compartment in frustration and then snapping his hand back to rub his wrist.

“Look,” Gwen said, turning the key in the ignition, “you need the sleep more than I do. I’ll drop you off at your apartment, go finish packing up those case files, get the weirdo janitor records guy to make copies, and I’ll nap later.”

David turned towards Gwen, ready to object, but he closed his mouth when he realized she was right. The last day had been rough on him, and he needed to recover before tonight if he wanted any hope of finding anything - and not being stabbed, he remembered, his stomach dropping to his shoes.

“If you’re sure,” he sniffled. “I have to be back here at eleven.”

“Yeah yeah,” Gwen grumbled, waving him off, “I’ll drive you.”

\---

David knocked on the pawn shop's front door, smiling into the dark shop windows. “Kevin?” he called quietly, again rapping his knuckles on the wood.

After a silent moment, the deadbolt clunked open and Kevin poked his head out. He wore an expression of frustration, and pulled David in by his lapels. He leaned heavily against the door and locked it behind him, groaning.

“Kid,” he hissed, “I said come fashionably late. You aren’t fashionable _or_ late.”

David spotted the broom leaning up against Kevin’s desk and the dust on his shirt. It took him a moment before he realized that Kevin had insulted his look.

“What, exactly, isn’t fashionable about this outfit?” David asked, holding out his arms and spinning around.

Kevin put his fingers to his forehead and squeezed. “Did you get dressed in the dark?”

“It took me like a half hour just to get my hair flattened,” David admitted, “I don't get paid a lot yet, I'm still technically a rookie, and--”

Kevin shushed him. “Glad I didn't tell ya about the back door for two reasons, kid,” he muttered. “The shirt is fine, but, Jesus, that vest... that vest is fuckin’ tacky. Black with brown?”

David pulled at the sweater vest. “It's warm,” he said lamely. “And it goes with my lucky tie.”

Kevin put a hand over his eyes so he didn't have to look at the brown wool coated in a thin layer of pilling and snags on top of a rich green tie. David had put it on over a pair of perfectly respectable black slacks and the polished cop shoes from before. And his hair, which had earlier been styled into a strangely youthful little quiff, now hung lank and nearly in his eyes. It looked like he'd tried to tame it and push it to the side, but it had gone all stringy and sad.

“I didn't tell you to dress warm, I told you to dress like you're trying to get laid! You're fucking lucky I own a pawn shop, kid, and I'm nice enough to loan you shit so neither of us loses fingers,” Kevin said quickly, and pointed at the rack of clothing David had spotted earlier. “I'm pretty sure I got somethin’ in your size, and anything's better than that...”

David fiddled with the hem of his sweater vest with a look of apology, and slipped it carefully over his head. “Where should I...?” He asked, holding it out.

“Garbage, honestly,” Kevin smirked, but took it from him with a strange sort of gentleness. “I'll tuck it here behind the desk so you can uh, figure out where to burn it later.” He smiled, and folded the piece neatly.

“Thanks.” David nodded, and ducked down the aisle. Before he'd even gotten there, he already knew what he wanted to try on first - the green waistcoat he'd seen earlier. He found it quickly, hanging between a pair of pants much too large for his skinny frame and a hanger dedicated to suspenders.

It was a few shades paler than his emerald tie, which the embroidery around the sides very nearly matched. The stitching formed two little pine trees above the left hip. David brushed a finger over them with a soft smile.

It was double breasted, which meant David had to struggle through unhooking the eight silver buttons instead of his usual three or four. But finally he opened it up and shook it out, then slipped it on.

“Oh,” he whispered, pulling it tight and buttoning it. “Oh my gosh.”

“You die back there, bud?” Kevin grunted between the shelves.

David smoothed down his tie under the waistcoat, and emerged from between the piles of dusty junk. “Um, is this one okay?”

“That's a fifteen dollar piece there,” Kevin said in surprise. “Fits you a treat though.”

“Oh gosh, sir, I don't have fifteen dollars,” David squeaked, hands flying to the buttons to get the expensive vest off of him before he ruined it.

“I mean, if you manage to stay alive down there I'll consider us even. It's silk, so don't fuckin’ miss your mouth when you're drinking.”

“O-okay!” David shakily agreed.

“And fix your hair, you look like a mop turned upside down.” Kevin pointed at the box of children’s toys, where the can of hair gel sat on a dusty shelf.

David dutifully retrieved it, and waited for Kevin to nod before unscrewing the top and dipping in two fingers. It took a long moment of scrubbing it between his hands and then combing it through his hair before it would stay slicked back properly, but Kevin finally stopped shielding his eyes.

“Much fucking better,” Kevin grumbled, and began fiddling with the lock on his desk’s display case. “Okay, this is definitely just a loaner and you have to give it back before you leave tonight or I’ll break your kneecaps, but,” he announced, reaching into the case. “Here, so you look less like a damn cop and more like a clueless rich kid.”

He held up the silver pocket watch, which gleamed even in the low light streaming in from the cloudless night, which was fitting, as it had been engraved with a full moon.

“You know how to wear one of these, right?”

David nodded, thought better of it, and shook his head.

Kevin sighed. “Well, kid, it's a pocket watch. You first put the watch part in your pocket.”

He set the heavy timepiece in David's palm. David stared at it for a moment, stunned by the sheer opulence of the thing, and then followed directions.

“Now you take the chain... and the buttonhole, and then the clip...” Kevin muttered, quickly securing his merchandise to even more of his merchandise. “There. Now just smile a lot and don't let anyone convince you to gamble. I might be the boss here, but my dealers get their cut and I'm not about to lose this watch to anybody, got that?”

David nodded vacantly, staring down at the silver against the silk.

As if on cue, music - or really, the discordant tuning of musical instruments - hummed faintly through the floorboards.

“Oh, wow,” David said, the awe in his voice matching the stars in his eyes, “you have a _band?!_ ”

“Drunk people love dancing,” Kevin shrugged. “What did you think the stage was for?”

“I've never seen a live band,” David continued excitedly, “I just have my victrola and a few records, I never thought--”

Kevin chuckled, his voice gruff. “You're in for a real treat, kid. Wait up here until the music starts, and you can head down.”

David stayed silent for a long, long moment, until Kevin heard him draw a ragged breath.

“Hey, kid, what--”

“A band! A real jazz band!” he squeaked, tears running down his face. “I'm so excited! And, oh...” he slumped over, the wind knocked out of him with realization. “I could get killed down there,” he whimpered, now wide eyed with horror. “But maybe not, and you're being so nice to me,” he said, straightening up again. “I don't... I'm scared, but...” he stammered, digging in his pant pocket for a handkerchief and smiling as he hyperventilated and scrubbed at his face.

“Just,” Kevin tried, looking nervous, “don't... this,” he grunted, motioning at David's face.

David gulped air. “Okay, okay.”

“In through the nose, bud. Fuck’s sake...”

David stepped close and gathered Kevin into an awkward hug, which Kevin did not reciprocate.

“Thank you,” David sniffed.

Kevin stared blankly at the wall over David's shoulder for a moment.

“You done?” he groaned, still not moving, arms hanging at his sides.

“Just a second,” David muttered.

Kevin sighed as he felt something wet - he hoped tears - seeping into his red button up.

“Okay, Jesus, you're crushing my balls with my own merchandise,” he said, wriggling out of David's loving stranglehold on his torso. “If you fucking go down there crying, I'll kill you myself.”

“I'm fine!” David said a little too loudly, “totally fine.”

“I'm gonna see how shit's going downstairs,” Kevin motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “Get your shit together, wait for the music. Don't fuck up.”

David, who already looked much better, gave Kevin a smile and a thumbs up. “Yeah! Just gotta be cool, be calm.”

Kevin wordlessly took his own deep breath, scrubbed his hand through his scruffy beard, and disappeared into the darkness behind the hidden panel.

David spent a long time pacing, trying to figure out what to do with his hands. He clasped them together, tried to run them through his hair without thinking, stuffed them into his pockets.

Where he'd put the bloodstained card, tucked tight against his leg.

That's why he was here, he reminded himself.

This card.

Jasper.

He steeled himself just as something deep plucked and thrummed under his feet, and the music began.

\--

The first thing that struck David when he entered Kevin's speakeasy in full swing was the light. He stepped into the smoky throng of short dresses and tight waistcoats with eyes as wide and glimmering as a newborn fawn, and knees just as wobbly. Candles flickered on every booth’s table and on the corners of the bar, where people bent to light their cigarettes in their gentle flames. A simple chandelier hung over the open dance floor to one side, casting shadows over the casino tables and the booths across the room.

He closed the door behind him and nodded at the few people who glanced up at him, surprised by his arrival. With a soft smile and a shy wave, he managed to wave off most of the unwanted attention and weave his way over to the bar.  
Finally calm and with his back against something solid, he forced his face into a neutral but friendly expression and began to glance around the room.

The band, who had brought their own small drum kit and upright bass, nodded their heads and tapped their feet as they played. A saxophone and muted trumpet joined their sultry rhythm, both putting on a show by rocking their instruments and their hips as they played. And front and center stood a tall, blond woman in a black fringe dress and pink boots, crooning in her smoky voice and leading the crowd in an upbeat dance.

David was transfixed, nodding his head in time and beaming, but unwilling to move away from the bar.

Two songs later, he tore his attention away and began studying the complex card game that had plastic discs and little boxes on the tables in front of him. He watched one man take off his tie and put it in the box, and then quickly lose said tie to an impassive dealer. It looked like you only played with two cards each, somehow, but David couldn't make sense of it from this distance.

Finally, he turned his attention to the booths. Several people chattered happily as they nursed alcoholic drinks or cigarettes in long holders, all of them as carefree and drunken as the next.

And then David’s eyes landed on a shadowy man in the casino’s largest, darkened booth.

He was puzzling; he looked no older than David, yet he held a slowly burning cigar in one gloved hand. In the other, he swirled a glass of something amber by holding the top of the glass in delicate fingers and absentmindedly rolling his wrist. His perfectly tailored suit spoke of old money, with fine shoes and what looked like a real silk tie.

His fashion wasn’t unique among the affluent casino crowd, David noted warily, but something else about him was. The hat, tipped down just enough to cover his eyes, gave him a mysterious air that drew David’s attention. His presence alone was magnetic.  
David studied the stranger for a few more moments, memorizing the soft rhythm of his movements. He lifted the cigar to his mouth, took a draw, and then let the smoke leak from between his lips. Then his other hand would move, bringing the...cognac, or rum maybe, David thought slowly, up for a small sip. His elbow returned to the table, and he swirled the glass a few more times before starting the process anew.

He drew again, and as the smoke spiraled gracefully up around his face, he lifted his head. Eyes, blue as ice and twice as cold, cut across the crowd.

David dropped his gaze, but knew - they had locked eyes, for a second. He’d been caught staring.

Heat rose in his face. He watched the stranger out of the corner of his eye carefully, feigning interest in the band as they played an upbeat jazz set. But the stranger, who has caught his eye, set down his glass and leaned back in his booth, taking his turn to watch David. His grin uncurled slowly, more and more smug as David tried to ignore him. He spent another minute holding his smoldering cigar before he ground out the cherry ember on the tabletop. Abandoning the ashy mess, he stood, buttoning his suit jacket with a quick flick of the wrist, and headed in David’s direction.

David’s eyes darted from the band to the stranger and then the door to the staircase. He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling awkward and exposed without a suit jacket, hoping the stranger couldn’t tell his cufflinks were hand-me-downs from a generation past.

The stranger padded slowly, in no hurry. He had the cool confidence of a predator in his element. The crowd moved around him, never getting between him and his prey.

He stopped beside David, silent for a beat.

“Well,” he said just loud enough for David to hear, “ _you_ certainly don’t belong here.”

David swallowed, staring at the bassist’s fingers as they bounced across string after string, the blond woman crooning into the crowd as she danced.

“What gave it away?” he replied, just as quietly. He turned to his new acquaintance, smiling with good-natured surrender.

His acquaintance waited a moment, staring David down with humor in his eyes. Finally, he responded. “You’ve been here for quite nearly a half hour, and never once played a hand,” he chuckled, motioning to the casino tables spread around the room.  
“Ah,” David replied lamely. He shifted, trying to recover. “I’ve actually never played cards,” he confessed, even more quietly. Which was entirely true; David couldn’t even identify what game the people huddled around felted tables were playing. He watched the nearest throng as one man dealt face down cards around the table.

The stranger laughed. “It’s easy. The numbers on the cards are their worth. Face cards are ten, aces are one or eleven. You try to have a total higher than the dealer, but don’t go over twenty-one. Got it?” His blue eyes flashed in David’s direction again, smile bright in the dim lighting.

David blinked at him in response. He cocked an eyebrow, again watching the gamblers at the nearest table as they pointed and waved their hands over their cards. The dealer’s arms moved at impossible speeds, dealing, flipping, collecting and meting out chips.

“I’ll show you,” he hummed, suddenly standing too close to David. He put his gloved hand on the small of David’s back, and pushed.

“I'm not supposed to--” David nervously stumbled towards the nearest table, glancing at the stranger with worry.

He stared back with a grin and a cocked eyebrow, daring David to protest. “Come now, sit. I’ll cover your first bet,” he said, louder now.

He reached inside his jacket and produced a small roll of bills, tied with a rubber band.

“Greens, please, for my new friend’s first ever hand,” he told the dealer, dropping the roll on the table the same way he’d discarded his cigar.

The dealer, a short man with a red face, nodded and retrieved the bills. He set four green chips in front of David in a little stack, and turned back to shuffling his deck.

“Now. you put down your bet,” the stranger started, taking David’s hand and setting the chips on his palm. He then motioned to a box in front of David’s seat, waiting patiently.

David felt hot here, under the lights and the discerning gaze of a half dozen experienced gamblers. He slid the chips into the box and looked to the stranger over his shoulder for approval, which he got in the form of a short nod.

Again, the dealer’s hands flew, placing down card after card. Two cards in front of everyone, face down. He flipped one of his own cards face up.

“Dealer’s queen,” the stranger muttered. “Well, let’s see what we have to work with.”

David lifted the card on the right, holding it up for the stranger to read over his shoulder.

“One-eyed Jack,” the stranger said, lifting an eyebrow. “What’s the other one?”

David obediently returned the card to the table, and lifted the left card.

The ace of spades. David felt his breath hitch.

It looked identical to the one in David’s pocket, minus the drop of blood. Perfect twins, down to the way the black spade had faded to a navy blue. He swallowed harder this time, holding the card between his thumb and forefinger harder than he meant.  
The stranger burst into laughter right beside David’s ear. “Such beginner’s luck!” he crowed, slapping David on the back and tugging the card from his hand. David grasped for it, but the dealer swiped both cards and pulled them close.

“Stay,” the stranger said to the dealer, waving his hand over the cards. His smile threatened to take over his face as the dealer flipped over his second card, revealing a seven.

“My friend here will take a pumpkin, thank you,” he said smoothly, clapping David on the shoulder again.

The dealer paid out, taking boxes and tossing back chips to those who had come out on top. He paid David last, handing him a single orange chip.

David stared at it, lost.

“Go on, cash out,” the stranger urged. “Or keep the chip until the next time you play, I’m sure the casino doesn’t mind.” He turned to the dealer and winked. “I’m sure nobody will forget the man who won blackjack on his first hand ever.”

The dealer nodded emphatically as David stood.

“I still don’t know what I’m doing,” David admitted, pocketing the chip, missing the stares he got from several gamblers who had seen his hand. “Don’t I owe you?”

The stranger took his hand, firmly, and shook it. “Daniel Goodfellow,” he said, interrupting with a grin sharp as knives. “And you... You must be the luckiest man alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've introduced all of the major plot characters besides Nikki now, and we're just getting started. (If you're bored by the lack of serious action, I'm sorry - I planned this as a 3 act, and while the tension will absolutely rise now that the boys have met, chapter 6 is about where shit really begins to pop off in my notes.) Also I apologize for not being able to shut Kevin up ever, I seriously cut another 1k or so words just from his scenes and they're still this long.
> 
> Some fun facts that pertain to this chapter!
> 
> -Alcohol prescriptions and communion wine were pretty much the only legal loopholes for openly drinking alcohol in the 20s, and because the only medicines they had for things like anxiety, depression, generalized stress disorders, and many other mental illnesses boiled down to alcohol and barbiturates, the state couldn't ban medical alcohol (which was a lot like Xanax/Valium is nowadays. You've seen the John Mulaney Valium sketch. People could lie or exaggerate and be prescribed legal alcohol.)  
> -Jen would be called a mortician nowadays, but in the 20's, the practice was the blossoming field of demisurgery. The history is super interesting if you can handle medical gore and dead people.  
> -That hand David played (Ace of spades + one of the two black Jacks) is the reason the game is called blackjack, even though the special rule (winning with that hand gives a prize of 150% what you gambled, plus a bonus of $5 for every 50 cents wagered) no longer exists. It was introduced to popularize the game, but in some cases, ended up bankrupting a house. I had to rewrite the end of this chapter twice because, funny story, I broke the world with this rule in the first draft.
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments!! As always, it's much appreciated. Do you guys want me to respond to your comments? The only reason I usually don't is because I don't want people to feel nervous about actual interaction or inflate my comment count, but I do want to interact more??
> 
> If you want to follow my tumblr I'm pyreclaws on there too, I mostly reblog memes and make shitposts when I'm half awake but sometimes I do post fic updates (like when I got super sick) and I answer asks when tumblr doesn't eat them.
> 
> I'm rambling again, thank you guys so much for the support and I hope you have a wonderful day!


	3. My only sin is I can't win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max eats. Gwen makes a breakthrough. David forgets, but only for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "That Man" by Caro Emerald!
> 
> I will not apologize for taking forever this time, I had a lot going on and this chapter is very nearly 11k words. Have fun!
> 
> I got my first fanart from creabo on tumblr!! Go check them out!
> 
> Some notes before we start!  
> so one scene makes more sense:  
> -the 19th amendment (women's right to vote in America) was ratified in 1920, but prior to this law, the push for women's suffrage had been a hotbed of conservatism and racism - and prohibition passing into law in 1921 was a direct result of white women (and more specifically, religious ones in temperance movements) being able to vote.
> 
> also: Theodore is just a filler name for the bartender from "Into Town" ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_He’s so kind, Gwen. He knows the culture. He’s confident and nobody bothered me when I was with him. I think he’ll be a willing asset. I didn’t tell him anything, Gwen, he just knew._

_He paid for me, Gwen! He ushered me around, showed me the place. No, I didn’t find anything else. It’s definitely the right place, the cards matched. I don’t know whose blood it is on Jasper’s card but that’s the speakeasy he wanted me to be in. I’ll have to keep looking._

David woke sometime after sunrise, his eyelids heavy and his mind still buzzing. He’d told Gwen very nearly everything on the ride home, and at first, Gwen had been silent. Thinking, she’d said later, as David froze, wondering if she was going to tear into him for breaking the laws they were supposed to enforce. Or worse, forbid him from speaking from Master Goodfellow again.

But after a stretch of silence, she had turned to him with a tired smile.

“Jasper is gonna be so proud of you,” she’d said quietly, tapping a punch against his shoulder.

David rolled over, wiping the sleep for his eyes and brushing it off on the front of his nightclothes, which was yesterday’s union suit.

He idly realized he could still smell cigar smoke on it.

Suddenly warm and very awake, he sat straight up in bed. He needed a shower. He had to get to work. He needed to thank Gwen for saving his skin so many times in one day.

He could get pastries. There was a bakery on the way to work that sold all kinds of things they both liked...

David stood and started undoing the buttons of his union suit, getting ready for his day.

Jasper’s wallet sat unattended on David’s bedside table.

\---

David stood outside the bakery with a brown paper bag and a look of uncertainty on his face. He glanced at the pastries, and then at the front of the store.

Gwen would want coffee with her donut, and the coffee here was fresh, but he’d already spent some money and there was always free coffee at the station, but the pot was never washed and the coffee tasted like tar unless you dumped in a lot of sugar, and this coffee was right here and delicious, but it was sort of cold out so it might cool too much on his walk to work, but then didn’t it make sense to have something hot to hold on the way there?

_Whump._

Something solid but hollow bounced off the side of David’s head, quite literally slapping the reverie out of him. He ducked and spun in surprise, protecting the bag of pastries.

A rolled up newspaper?

“Nice job keeping a lookout there, David,” Max crowed, hands stuffed back into his pockets. “You should have seen your dumbass face!”

David stood again, his smile huge. “Max! Hey kiddo, how’s the paper route?”

Max snorted, opened his mouth to answer, and then his eyes flicked to the brown paper bag that was slowly staining dark with spots of grease.

“Is that food?” he asked, pointing. “Give me that and I’ll tell you something you’ll want to hear.”

David searched Max’s face. Did he actually know something? ... _Did it matter?_ David asked himself. With a shrug, he reached into the sack and pulled out the pastry he’d bought for himself - a danish with a drizzle of chocolate icing and a dash of candied nuts.

“I hope you’re not allergic to choco--” David started, holding out his breakfast, stunned when Max marched up and swiped it right into his mouth.

He gulped down half in one bite, chewing for a moment, staring up at David with his permanently annoyed expression as his jaw worked.

David stood in quiet awe until Max finally swallowed, holding the pastry up to his mouth like a mouse protecting a meal.

“Do you... can you tell me now?” David asked gently, now that Max had slowed to breathe.

“Paper,” Max mumbled thickly, pointing down at the one he had lobbed at David’s head.

David bent to pick it up. “Okay, got it,” he informed Max, showing him.

Max sighed. “Look at it, dumbass.”

David unrolled it, scanning over the front page.

The headline today was a story he was familiar with: the police had finally gone public with last week’s disappearance. The owner of the Blue Peacock, a man named Theodore, hadn’t shown up to open the restaurant Monday or Tuesday last week, and when the police had been called, a senior officer found evidence that he’d emptied the till, pulled everything he could from the bank, and fled to Rio. With so many businessmen turning up dead in New York City, the commissioner had ordered additional investigation before bringing the story public, but... It looked like the beloved restaurant owner had simply gotten scared and fled.

David tried the next story down, which was, inevitably, about the serial killer who had been popularized as “The Prophet.” Again, David was familiar with the story - and today, he was getting full access to all of the case files, so he would soon learn the private details. But the story in the paper simply covered the timing of the Prophet’s kills. Where most killers tended to accelerate, kill more frequently, more messily, the Prophet had slowed over the past six months to a stop. The public was on edge, expecting someone - a shop owner, as the Prophet tended to favor - to drop dead any day. Instead of becoming emboldened by the six-month absence, tension was growing. If he hadn’t stopped, then who would be next? When? And if he’d stopped, then would he get away with a dozen or possibly more counts of murder? But that was old news, rehashed for the sake of an easy story. David read on.

Commissioner Campbell’s grinning face beamed up in a grainy black and white photograph, making David smile. He’s just made another public statement about the Prophet being top priority, new leads were opening up, all non-essential cases were on hold because of this public crisis. Which explained why he’d moved everyone yesterday. It seemed like the killings, and the mystery, were all anyone in the city could talk about, not that David could blame them.

David went to turn the page, and Max made a choking noise of disbelief.

“Did you not see it? Can you even _read??_ ” he snipped.

“I don’t see anything out of the ordinary here, Max,” David admitted.

“I thought you cops paid more attention and kept shit from the public for the sake of safety or whatever-the-fuck, are you telling me you really don’t know?” Max scoffed, but his expression let slip the slightest hint of fear.

“Know... what, Max? I only got reassigned just yesterday, I haven’t had a chance to look over the Prophet case files yet.”

“No, fuck, David, not that. This!” Max yanked down on David’s arm so he could reach the newspaper, and slapped his pointer finger, crumbs and all, against the print.

“Theodore, 52, owner of the popular lunch and dinner spot, the Blue Peacock, fled from his Water Street apartment last weekend--” David read off until Max pointed again.

“If he fled from his apartment, then why was there a hearse parked behind the restaurant when I was delivering papers Saturday morning?” Max insisted, his voice a low hiss.

There was a long, slow beat where David didn’t say anything, his mind buzzing with static.

“That... I don’t...” he said quietly. “Are you saying you think he’s dead?”

“I’m saying he’s dead and someone wants you to think he ran away,” Max growled, leaning in much too close behind the newspaper.

David took the opportunity to look him over. Max looked thinner than he remembered. Paler. The circles under his eyes, darker.

“Are you sick?” he asked, whispering behind the newspaper.

“I’m twelve, David, I have eyes,” Max hissed back.

“No, no, sick. Ill. Do you feel well?”

“David!” Max snapped. “I am telling you someone fucking died, can your pea-sized brain stay focused for one goddamn minute?”

“It doesn’t make sense, Max,” David sighed. “Who would kill Theodore? He’s a real quiet guy, maybe even a little forgettable.”

Max scrubbed at his face in frustration. “David, there’s a fucking serial killer who has been killing guys who own, like, all kinds of businesses, why the fuck is this not clicking to you?!”

“You think you walked by as the Prophet was murdering Theodore?” David asked, eyes wide. “Are you sure a gravedigger wasn’t in for a meal?”

“David!” Max snarled under his breath. “I deliver papers at four in the fucking morning. The Blue Peacock does lunch and dinner. It was not _fucking open._ ”

David frowned. “But why would _anyone_ be there if it was four in the morning? Even Theodore has no reason to be there that early.”

Max deflated a bit. “Well, it’s... there were lights on, but only a few, it had to have been illegal as hell at least.”

“Hey, it’s a really good tip!” David chirped at normal volume, reaching down to pat Max’s hair through his newsboy cap. “I promise, I’ll look into it.”

Max slapped away David’s hand. “Will you tell me if someone died?”

“Oh, Max, did it scare you?” David cooed over the sound of light traffic.

“No, fuck off,” Max spat, pulling away like he’d been burned. “I just made a bet with a couple of my friends.”

David clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling with happiness. “Oh, Max!” he beamed down, “I didn’t know you had friends other than me! I’m so proud!”

“We aren’t fucking friends,” Max grit out, glaring.

David frowned. “Oh, sorry,” he accepted, “We’re best friends!” He lit up, holding up his hand for a high five.

“Okay, first off,” Max groaned, pushing down David’s hand, “I can’t stand you.”

“I have another donut,” David mentioned, shaking the bag.

“We are best fucking friends,” Max immediately said through his teeth.

David laughed and patted Max’s head again, which he grudgingly accepted. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you this one because it’s for my other best friend,” David explained, holding up a pointer finger, “but, I’ll give you a quarter. You can get a couple donuts and a coffee if you want!”

“I can’t believe I’m being bribed by a cop,” Max muttered loudly enough for David to hear.

David stuck his hand into his coat pocket to find some loose change, but his hand closed on something about the size of a dollar coin, and plastic.

A poker chip.

He felt his fingertips go warm around the contraband, but shoved the feeling, and the chip, aside. He fished out a quarter and held it out.

“Here you go, Max! Your best friend, who is me, wants you to go buy a good breakfast.” He placed the coin in the center of Max’s outstretched, sticky hand.

The instant David released the coin, Max snatched it up and dashed off.

“Sucker!” he called back at David, “I’m buying a comic book!”

David cupped his hands around his mouth. “Whatever makes you happy!” he called after Max.

Max spun and jogged backwards for a couple steps, holding up a little middle finger.

David chuckled and carefully folded the paper Max had left, tucking it under his arm.

\---

“Sorry I’m late!” David called as he pushed through the station door.

And paused.

Every senior officer, every investigator, every patrol officer David had ever met was crammed into the station, now staring at the loud intrusion holding a donut.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!” Commissioner Campbell boomed from somewhere in the center of the mess, halfway through a file as thick as his closed fist and grinning from ear to ear. “Davey, come join the briefing! Everyone, this is officer Larsen, he just made a breakthrough on a case that’s close to his heart, but he still volunteered to take down the Prophet with you all! Give him a round of applause!”

David could feel the blood rushing to his face as a modest smattering of applause accompanied a few respectful nods around the room. He muttered a “thanks” and scurried closer to the desk, which was covered in black and white pictures of victims on their station morgue’s slab.

“As I was saying,” Campbell continued, motioning to the file, “we have a stack of information this high. Why can’t anyone find a thing? We need new eyes on these pictures and these clues. There’s someone here who is killing the good people of New York City, and we are going to bring him to justice. And there’s a promotion in it for whoever figures it out!” Campbell announced, catching David’s eye and winking. “Anyone who needs more copies of this file, you can hike down to records. I have our venerable Q.M. running about ten more copies of everything. ...And that’s all! Get out there! Go catch that freak!” he shouted, shooing his officers with a particularly gory picture.

David glanced around for Gwen, still cupping the donut to his chest.

“Davey!” Campbell boomed again, a huge hand clapping down on David’s shoulder. He chuckled. “Venerable means really old, right?” he asked, and before David could say anything, he spoke again. “Ahh, you’re a good kid. I just wanted to say again, so sorry for moving you to a different case. But officer McFadden will turn up! I’m certain of it! And we have a contract with the people of this city! We keep them feeling safe, and their taxes pay our paychecks Davey, don’t you see?” He laughed, deep and huge and powerful.

David joined in with a huge smile and a nervous chuckle. “And it’s for the greater good,” David agreed. “There’s a much higher body count.”

“That there is, my boy, that there is!” Campbell clapped him on the shoulder again. “I wanted you to start right away, so I’m giving you my copy of the file. No trips to the copy room for my newly-promoted officer!”

“Newly promoted?!” David gasped, his eyes going huge and wide. He nearly dropped the donut.

“You’re a full officer starting today, Davey! Well done! Such a change from the little brat you were back in boot camp!” Campbell laughed again. “We're just finalizing the paperwork.”

“We are?” David peered around.

Gwen sat at her desk, shooting Campbell a look that could spoil milk.

“Oh, haha, I'm going to go take this file over there!” David nervously said. “Where, um, my, my police partner is sitting,” he stammered, removing Campbell's arm from his shoulder, “so thanks! Thank you!”

“Back to the job at hand already! That's my Davey, nose always to the grindstone.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at David as he retreated, file cradled against his chest like a particularly square baby.

Campbell then took a flask from his coat pocket and tipped it to his lips. “Well I'm off to the press again,” he announced to the room, “so if anybody needs me, fuck off until you catch this psychopath!” He took a moment to screw the cap back on and secure the flask, then took several heavy steps across the room and slammed his way out the door.

David cleared his throat. “Hey Gwen!” he chirped. “Crazy morning, right?” he set the file on her desk, then sat the paper bag, now dark with donut grease, beside it.

“I don't think Campbell remembers I'm not his fucking secretary anymore,” Gwen growled, snatching up the bag and opening it. “Is this strawberry frosting?” She pointed, eyes widening.

“Yeah! Sorry if my nuts got on it.”

Gwen blinked. “Your what?”

“I mean, go for it!” David urged. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you eat.”

“My hero,” Gwen muttered, only half sarcastic. She lifted her mug of station coffee in a cheers motion, and, once done, dunked the donut in.

She'd gotten lipstick on the mug, but David noted that the coffee looked freshly poured, full. So this was at least her second helping.

“Didn't you sleep?” David asked, leaning in with concern.

Gwen shrugged. “I had to come in early to fill in someone's promotion paperwork because our good commissioner is fucking incompetent,” Gwen hissed in exasperation.

“Oh, don't say that!” David chuckled. “He's just under a lot of stress.”

“He's drunk, you mean,” Gwen snorted, “trying to promise a city that he’s going to catch a killer and a bunch of other drunks.” Gwen took another sip and stuffed more donut into her mouth.

David smirked like she’d told a joke. “He’s not drunk! He’s just... drinking. A little bit. For the greater good.”

“Does the greater good need me to do even more paperwork?” Gwen sighed, finishing her donut and gulping down more coffee to chase it.

“Well, no, but the person who brought you a donut would appreciate it.” David smiled.

Gwen licked her fingertips off one by one, finishing with her middle finger, which she held up with a little chuckle. “Okay, alright,” she laughed, pulling the paper and pen in front of her again. “Time to make you a full officer, David.”

“Thank you,” he beamed, flipping open the file. “I didn’t realize it took so many forms to get a promotion.”

“Mostly it’s just a lot of calculating your raise based on performance, so I’m just putting numbers from your record into your form and--” she cut herself off, banging her hands on the desk. “The worst is that I actually have to fill out a separate form to say you’re not a rookie anymore, and there’s extra exemption crap because he’s actually promoting you when you’re technically below the required hours worked with, um, a senior officer,” she trailed off.

“That’s... a lot.” David swallowed around a lump.

“A lot of math just for pennies,” Gwen agreed, moving a paper to one side and staring at it, then scribbling on a different paper.

David started flipping through the morgue pictures, some faster than others.

A dozen victims. Nearly all men, two women, and one... torso, so decomposed and broken it had been impossible to tell. None of them related, all of them just regular people as far as David could tell. Most of them regular churchgoers but not all; nearly all of them business owners in the city; no preference for race; and none of the victims could have been considered wealthy, nor did any of the victim’s wealth go missing.

No patterns. No reason to kill any of these people. No money or power to grab, no hatred against a group. Perhaps it was personal, but according to the file, officers had been searching for connections from day one and every lead had been exhausted. They lived all over, worked all over.

Whoever this killer was, he had either gone to a whole lot of trouble to find his victims, or none at all - and with the state of each crime scene, David was having a very hard time deciding which of those it was.

The file outlined a tentative timeline. The very first victim - male, late fifties - found by his wife in their home after she had gone out for the day. David remembered it well even though he hadn’t been on the force yet.

The second victim, the unidentifiable one, had been found in the dumpster behind the station. Almost like a taunt.

And then the killings really began, almost one a month like clockwork, but with no other rhyme or reason. The only connections David could see were the obvious patterns: business owners in the city who were slightly more affluent that the common man but never robbed. But the reports also showed that each and every victim had been killed in the same, puzzling way.

David licked his finger and began turning pages, scanning each report for the cause of death, checking against morgue pictures. Each body was completely unmarked or had only very minor injuries - a bruised elbow, a rugburned knee, all things that might not have anything to do with being killed - and a single, precise, clean slice over and through the front of the throat. Impossibly clean, in David’s opinion. Perfectly centered, identical on each victim.

A signature. A _modus operandi._

They had kept the specifications out of the press, the truncated version simply stating the cause of death as due to loss of blood from a slit throat.

And then David found the crime scene pictures.

“Gwen,” David said, face white, reaching out a hand to touch the sheet she was very nearly done filling out.  
“Yeah, sorry, your raise isn’t going to be great, it’s-- what?” She glanced up and paused.

David pushed the inch-high stack of carefully copied pictures over to her side of the desk. On top, a ghastly scene - one of the victims, kneeling and slumped over the side of his bed, head down on his hands in supplication, a gout of blood all down his front and seeping, dark, into his duvet.

“You want me to look through these?” She pulled the pile over. “Okay, just finishing up, I have two lines, three sets of initials, and a signature left to do.”

David flipped through a few more papers as Gwen scratched out a few more things. Gwen could more easily investigate the matching causes of death, so David turned his attention to their only other lead - the fact most, and not even all, of the victims had been proprietors of their own businesses. He skimmed over pages and pages of reports written by individual officers on each business owned by the victims, quickly becoming overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information. A diner owner, a barber, a cafe owner, a priest, a grocer, a chief mechanic, and a tailor, to name a few. None of them with anything in common.

David sighed.

Gwen put the pen down with a click. “Done,” she announced, lifting the papers and tapping them against the desk. “I’ll just glance through these quickly for now so I can take these down to Records. You’ll be a full officer by the end of the week.” She pulled the photos close, and began flipping through.

“Ew,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “gross,” she shuffled to the next one. “Fucked, nasty, disgusting,” she commented blithely on three more. “Looks like this Prophet guy has a thing for kneeling and blood. Loads of blood. Be glad you’re not looking.”

David went white. “That could be something?” he offered shakily, writing it down on the inside cover of the case folder.  
“Hmm,” Gwen hummed, holding up one photo, then another. “Could you flip to the second to last victim’s file for me?” She pulled out another picture, holding the three of them in a fan.

David searched first for the timeline, pulling out the correct name. The chief mechanic, a man named Paul, who had been found in his home about six months ago. David quickly leafed through and pulled out the report.

“Okay, got it, what did you find?”

“Well, it’s probably nothing,” Gwen led, placing the photos face-up on the desk, “but I want to know what this dark spot is.” She arranged them side by side, giving a crude panoramic view of the room.

In the far right picture, Paul, with his blood pooling around him, bed taking up much of the frame. In the center picture, the foot of the bed, a flat-topped trunk, and a bit of carpet. In the left picture, a bit of wall, floor, and the door leading into what looked like a hallway. Nearly out of frame between the left and center pictures, close to the trunk, a stain in the carpet.

“Blood, the report says,” David replied.

“But all the rest of the blood is over there,” Gwen pointed at the body, “and, look at this.” Gwen picked up the left picture and laid it so the dark stain in the corner sat over the blood on the right. “It’s hard to tell because it’s monochrome, but,” Gwen pointed, “they look like different shades.”

David leaned over the desk, trying to study two shades of gray in a pair of photos made of nothing but shades of gray. He squinted.

“Actually, you might have something there,” David agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to Gwen, his face lit up now in earnest excitement. “We would have to see it in person to confirm it though, right?”

“It would be so old at this point, I don’t even know if that room is still closed and classified as a crime scene anymore.”  
“Campbell has been holding every crime scene since the third victim, actually! Because it’s an unsolved, high-profile case,” David blurted out. “We could go look right now! He said to get new eyes on everything!”

Gwen exhaled slowly. “Okay, okay, let me go hand these forms off to Records,” she muttered, sliding the pile of photos back to David’s side of the desk.

“Thank you thank you _thank you,_ ” he squeaked out excitedly, scooping the photos and reports back into the folder as quickly as he could,

\---

“Nikki, darlin’, you can’t have this pigeon in here, she’s laid eggs in my purse!”

“I told you, her name is Timothy,” Nikki insisted, collecting the docile pigeon in her little hands.

“And she’s dirty, sweetheart, put her outside...” Candace groaned, watching her daughter rub her face against the pigeon’s back.

“Timothy is very clean! She took a bath this morning, I watched her!” Nikki argued, now tucking the bird into the crook of her neck.

Candace plucked the eggs from her purse, a look of distaste on her face. “And where did she take this bath?”

“I filled the punch bowl with water,” Nikki said matter-of factly. Timothy waggled her tail, squatted, and pooped on the floor.

“The punch--! Nicolette, sweetheart, that bowl is crystal, you shouldn’t touch that without mommy’s help!” She spun, dropping one of the eggs. It landed with a splat, the yolk instantly seeping into an expensive rug.  
Candace inhaled slowly, putting a bright smile back on her face.

“Nikki, mommy has a big party tonight, okay? And she needs the house to be very clean. Could you run along and find one of your little friends down the street while mommy cleans this up?”

“Yes!” Nikki cheered, pumping one fist in the air and jostling Timothy.

“Change your clothes, dear. Don’t want to get your nice skirt all dirty,” Candace called over her shoulder, stepping towards the staircase.

“Yesss!” Nikki cheered again.

“But wear your play dress, sweetie. You’re a girl, and girls wear dresses.”

“Timothy is a girl and she doesn’t wear a dress,” Nikki called after her.

“Timothy isn’t even a girl’s name!” Candace shouted back up the stairs. “Why don’t you pick a nice girl’s name, like Tanya?”

“Dad would have let me wear trousers!” Nikki hollered from the top of the stairs.

Candace stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked back up at her daughter. She thought for a moment, and then sighed.

“Okay Nicolette, wear what you want, but take Timothy outside with you.” She put her hand on the railing. “Oh, and be back when it gets dark, sweetie! Don’t play with those boys for too long!”

“Yaaay!” Nikki cheered, her tiny feet pounding as she raced into her bedroom. Pigeon wings whistled after her. “You’re the best mom ever!”

\---

Gwen handed David the key to a middling apartment, which David mentally categorized as one step above his own apartment (which was, in turn, a step above a tenement.) David easily turned the key in the lock, and with a shove, cracked the sticky door open.

The air in here smelled stale, but not necessarily bad. It had likely been six months since another living person had been in here, after the body had been moved and the fluids mostly mopped up.

“Okay,” Gwen sighed, “we’re looking for stains.”

“Bedroom stains,” David added.

Gwen scratched her forehead. “Alright, well, we’re never going to say that phrase again,” she groaned.

“They’re stains that we’re going to find in the victim’s bedroom carpet,” David tried explaining, looking confused.  
“Yes, I mean... yes,” Gwen sighed, wiping her shoes before stepping into the living room.

Nothing had been touched since the first round of investigators had tried their hand at uncovering clues in here, meaning Gwen could see dust and age starting to reclaim every surface.

Two armchairs faced a coffee table, and a second smaller table between and behind the chairs held a radio. To one side, a modest bookshelf held a collection of light reading, a photo album propped up beside a crime novel and a joke book.

The kitchen had been scrubbed down by officers, where some of the flatware and all of the silverware had been taken by the grieving widow.

Gwen scanned light switches, doorways, and table edges for signs of a struggle that had been missed. Nothing, no scuffs or scratches or chipped paint or torn fabric.

David poked his head into the small hallway. To the left, bathroom. To the right, bedroom. He trotted with barely contained excitement to the bedroom door and reached for the door handle.

He popped the sticky frame open with a shove, and Gwen followed him inside.

The carpet in this room was short and patterned, but mostly cream. The bed had been stripped down to a bare, bloodstained mattress. At the foot of the bed stood a flat-topped wooden trunk, discolored from water. About a foot from the trunk, the stain Gwen had caught in the corner of the crime scene picture. And beside the bed, a great patch of blood, long dried.

Gwen tracked over to the strange stain and touched it, pulling a few of the carpet fibers apart with her nails.

“A little tacky,” she commented faintly, “but look at the color there,” she pointed at what was definitely blood, “and now here.”

David scratched his chin in thought. The bloodstain had gone from sticky to actually hard and flaking in the carpet at some point, where this other stain looked much more faded, less matted.

But most striking was the color. The aged blood had darkened from crimson to a deep rusty brown, where the other stain looked...burgundy still, fading strangely to amber in places.

“That’s... not blood,” David concluded lamely.

“It’s wine,” Gwen gasped.

David clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. After a moment of standing there shocked, he hissed, “that’s illegal!”  
Gwen laughed. “Yeah, but that’s not really why it’s interesting,” she explained.

David made an appropriate surprised noise. “What is it?”

Gwen pointed to the top of the trunk. “Look here, see the marks like circles? Someone set a wet glass here. Or two. I can’t tell.”

“Oh! Drinking wine, you mean,” David nodded sagely.

“In the bedroom?” Gwen asked, motioning around the room. “I think we just figured out something essential to the Prophet’s _modus operandi._ ”

“Um, which is?” David asked, peering around the room with an eyebrow raised.

“Think about it, David,” Gwen instructed. “There’s never a struggle to break in, almost like the victims are inviting the Prophet into their homes _willingly_. And here, this man seems to have invited the Prophet all the way into his bedroom. To share a drink.”

“Oh my word,” David whispered. “He’s seducing them.”

“I think,” Gwen chuckled, “considering the number of married men who have been killed and the, um, overt religious connotations - the praying, the bowing, the name - my hunch is the Prophet offers the bait of, well, sin, and if the victim takes it...” She motioned with a finger across her neck, “and then,” she waved towards the bed, “the Prophet makes them repent.”

“Oh _wow_ ,” David chirped, stars in his eyes, “that’s got to be it!”

“No, that’s... not what I’m saying, David. I mean that’s all very important, but. I think the men of the police station have overlooked one very important possibility.” Gwen touched the stained trunk again, and did one more scan of the room. “I think,” Gwen started, pulling herself to her full height, “no, my working theory is,” she tried again, holding up one pointer finger, “that the serial killer known as the Prophet is... a woman.”

“Oh my word!” David looked down at the stain, the trunk, the blood. He took his small notebook out of his inner coat pocket. “Should we tell Campbell right away? Draw up new suspect lists? I mean, I have to go to the pawn shop again tonight for Jasper’s case and it’s already getting sort of late, should we... do we have time to wait on this?”

“I need to look through a few more files, make absolutely sure I didn’t miss something obvious before I bring this to Campbell. If I’m wrong...”

“Yeah,” David nodded, drooping a bit, but quickly perked back up. “”But that answers so many questions! It fits everything we’ve seen! It just has to be right!”

“It... does make a lot of sense,” Gwen muttered, sounding desperate to be right.

“Maybe we should visit a few more crime scenes first,” David suggested. “Look, I’ll pick one at random from the list and we’ll go there tomorrow. If the theory holds...”

“We go to Campbell, and the press has a field day,” Gwen said, scratching her chin. “And the Prophet leaves town because her greatest secret is out.”

“Yeah, anything we tell Campbell will definitely go straight to the press,” David nodded, digging out a pencil. “But is getting the Prophet to leave a good thing?”

“So she kills people in a new city? No, we have to catch her,” Gwen shot back.

“Okay, we’ll just keep this between us for now.” David put the pencil to the page.

“Don’t even write it down, David. Just in case.”

David froze halfway through the word “hunch,” and flipped the notebook closed. “Okay, yeah, good idea,” he agreed. “That’s a good plan for now. Should I look around one more time in case I’m forgetting something? Because I really feel like I’m forgetting something,” David said, pacing in a tight circle near the end of the bed and the trunk.

“Sure, one more look, and then we’ll head out. We have to be thorough with a theory as big as this one.”

David ran his hand over the foot of the bed, which had escaped much of the staining. He glared down at the wine stain. He opened, then closed, the dusty drapes.

What was he forgetting?

\---

“You sure know how to keep a girl waiting,” Jen drawled, back pressed against the carved stone bricks in the wall of a certain alleyway. A plume of smoke escaped her pink lips, and she ground out the cigarette on the stone.

“Yeah, I got busy. What’s your order?” Kevin replied quietly, gravelly, his eyes shooting around to glance behind her, over his own shoulder, at the canvas overhang blocking his view of the rooftops.

Jen smiled, her teeth straight and white and sharp in the quickly fading light. “The stuff you’ve been selling me is fine, but I need something special this time around.”

Kevin fiddled with the hem of his unremarkable red shirt. “Yeah? I mean, I can only get you what my supplier--”  
“Nightshade. An extract, if that’s not too exotic for your... supplier,” Jen laughed. “The scholars in my field of study,” she explained, “have found beautifying uses for all sorts of things, what kind of student would I be if I didn’t use the newest techniques myself?”

Kevin grumbled, looking down at his scuffed shoes. “Deadly nightshade? That’ll be tough to get my hands on, but... you’re pretty much my best customer. Plus your music helps keep me afloat, so of course I can’t turn you down.”

“You really can’t,” Jen smirked. “Thankfully for you, it’s only nightshade.”

“What are you even doing with deadly nightshade juice?” Kevin asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“It’s for eyes,” she said simply. “One drop in each preserves the retina for a few extra days, makes them nice and bright,” she explained with another quiet, fluttery laugh.

“Oh,” Kevin grunted. “I didn’t know funerals had dead people’s eyes open.”

Jen shrugged. “I’ve done taxidermy on someone’s wife before. Some people have strange tastes, when it comes to the death of a loved one.”

“Yeah, and, payment?” Kevin blurted out, looking pale.

“I want to see what quality you bring me, dear. You know where to find me, and you know I’m good for it.” Jen held out a slender, bronze hand. “You can name your price if you impress me.”

Kevin stuck out his hand, but jerked it back. “Wait, I’m... not getting implicated in this, right?” Kevin rumbled, eyes searching the space in the alleyway behind her again.

“In what?” Jen said sweetly. “In the experimentation of a budding demisurgeon?”

Kevin hesitated for a moment, then grasped her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Belladonna tincture. Wait, extract? You want it concentrated?” he clarified, not letting go of her hand.

“Oh, yes, the more concentrated the better,” Jen answered.

And with a quick pull on his hand, she yanked him into an embrace.

“This,” she hissed into his ear, “is our new drop spot, dear.” She released him and pulled away, still smiling kindly.

“Back here? I thought this was a crime scene!” Kevin whispered, trying his hardest to remain calm as his heart tried to leap into his throat.

“Oh, not an active one,” Jen chuckled, picking at her nails. “It’s the last place anyone would suspect a drop.”

“Because nobody in their right mind would drop here!” Kevin hissed again, motioning at the back of the dark restaurant.

Jen locked eyes with him. “Exactly. The cops have already done their work, found their clues. The commissioner is only sitting on it to make absolutely sure he didn’t miss anything for his biggest case ever.”

“You’re certain?” Kevin took a step to the side, looking over the blue overhang to the second story, which was also dark.

“Absolutely certain.”

Kevin let out a sharp breath. “Okay, fine, then where should the drop go?” he groused, motioning to the empty alleyway, devoid of even dumpsters and garbage.

“The sculpture,” Jen mumbled. “I’ll leave you to go look at it, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Th-the bird? That’s on street side!” Kevin whispered indignantly. “I don’t do drops on street side, especially in front of a huge crime scene!”

“Just go look, Kevin,” Jen dismissed him, turning and walking away down the alley.

Kevin grit his teeth and pushed his hat down over his eyes, taking an awkward step after her before deciding against it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and rounded the corner to the front of the Blue Peacock.

\---

David rounded the corner to the back side of Kevin’s Pawn, waving Gwen off from the alleyway. As she sped off into the night, he gave everything a once-over. It was still and silent as a grave, deserted, nothing but a few small trash cans and some crumbling bricks.

And a cellar door, he noted, smiling to himself. A back door.

He waited a moment, pretending to straighten his tie, and then actually straightening his tie. Nobody else poked their way into the alley.

He clicked open the pocket watch with the engraved moon, the spindly hands showing it was nearing twenty after eleven.

Fashionably late.

With one more casual glance for movement down both sides of the alley, David leaned down and cracked open the cellar door.

The first thing that hit him was the beat - a thrumming, comfortable tap he couldn’t hear until it leaked out from the open cellar, dulled by another wall somewhere at the bottom of the stairs.

David clambered down and pulled the door shut behind him as quietly as he could.

“Password?” someone grumbled in the darkness.

“Uh,” David squeaked, jumping in surprise.

“I’m just kiddin’, buddy,” Kevin snorted, standing up from beside the stairs. “You’re a guest.”

“Kevin, my gosh, you scared me,” David gasped.

“Congrats on finding the right door this time,” Kevin laughed, slapping David’s shoulder. How’s the search coming along?” he asked, voice barely audible over the muffled music.

“I haven’t seen anything too bad so far, so I think, good?” David peered down, his eyes adjusting. “Are we in a closet?”  
Kevin laughed harder. “Kind of,” he admitted. “The broom is in that corner, so watch your step.”

“This must be on the other side of the wall of the stage,” David puzzled out, pointing to the louder side of the closet. “And that side?”

“That’s a bathroom, actually. I put the door next to the booths so there’s just a short way between the heavy drinkers and the toilet. And so nobody has to bother me or the bouncer.”

“Bouncer?” David asked, looking worried.

“Well, I’m between bouncers at the moment. The last one was demanding pay from my customers just to get in when I was already paying him from my profits.” He held out his arms in a shrug. “But then he went and cracked a kneecap and had to step down.” Kevin smiled.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate!” David offered.

“But yeah, get in there before the next guy shows up and I gotta fuckin’ explain why I’m chit chattin’ with a special customer.” He settled back into his seat.

“Yes sir!” David chirped with a salute and a grin.

He pushed the door open, blasted with the sudden light and sound and smoke in the speakeasy, smelling tangy wine and salty musk and earthy tobacco. The room beyond this door was an inferno of candles and cigarettes and body heat and passion.

And standing beside the bar nursing something expensive - icy eyes already locked on David before he’d even pushed shyly through the doorway - Master Goodfellow.

Daniel.

David swallowed, meeting Daniel’s gaze with a smile and an excited little wave.

Daniel nodded ever so slightly, his face splitting into a sharp grin. He raised his glass in David’s direction before tipping it back, finishing his whatever that was in a swallow. He set the glass back on the bar, and started in David’s direction.

David dodged a few milling people with a handful of “pardon me”s, weaving his way between the casino tables to meet him halfway.

“Why David!” Daniel shouted over the music, “I’m so glad I didn’t scare you off last night!” He clasped an arm around David’s shoulders in a friendly embrace, steering him towards the empty corner booth.

“Of course not!” David responded in kind, unsure of where to put his hands and finally wrapping his arm around Daniel’s waist, hovering about an inch over his hip in uncertainty.

“Come on, sit! I’ll get you a drink,” Daniel offered. “Pick your poison.”

David missed the slight curl of Daniel’s lip.

“I...um...” David started as Daniel pushed him into the booth, effectively trapping him.

“Don’t tell me,” Daniel frowned, “you don’t drink.”

David glanced right and left. The only people not holding a glass filled with some sort of liquor were those dancing in front of the stage, and even some of them were sipping between steps of a quick swing dance David hadn’t seen before.

“W-well, that...” David stammered.

“So you don’t know the first thing about gambling, you don’t drink, and you don’t seem too interested in... taking names,” Daniel said delicately, leaning down to speak an inch from David’s ear. “So what are you doing in a place like this?”

“No, no,” David scrambled, pulling back into the booth, “I just, I just don’t know what they serve,” he offered by way of explanation, a blush flaring up in his freckled cheeks.

Daniel straightened up. “The cheaper stuff is little more than bathtub gin and communion wine, which I can’t say I recommend. But if you’re willing to shell out the cash, they do have a few reserved bottles of handsomely aged cognac,” Daniel pronounced beautifully.

“Um,” David squirmed on the sticky vinyl, “I don’t know if I like any of those things.”

Daniel laughed. “I knew it, you’ve never had a drop in your entire life.”

David hung his head. “I’m the worst person for this job,” he mumbled, “but I’m also the only person who can do it.”

Daniel smirked, and finally slid in beside David. “What’s the job?” he asked smoothly, sitting close enough where their knees touched. He folded his gloved hands in front of him, his forearms resting on the edge of the table in a perfect show of manners.

David hesitated. “Um, I don’t think I can say,” he mumbled, distracted by Daniel’s now-twiddling thumbs in tight black leather.

“Well, I could tell you about my job instead,” Daniel offered, pulling his hands apart to drop them in his lap.

The side of his hand brushed David’s leg.

“O-oh, yes!” David’s voice cracked, “what job is that?” He felt more heat shoot to his face in a wave, and cleared his throat.

“Here,” Daniel began, reaching up to a new vest today - this one as blue as his eyes - and pulling a card from an inner pocket.

A business card. He placed it in front of David, who quickly scanned it.

In simple typewriter print, the card said:

Daniel Goodfellow

Private Investigator

David flipped it over, and on the back there was a phone number.

David’s eyes lit up.

“You’re a private eye?” he hissed excitedly. “Oh my word, are you here to catch somebody?”

Daniel couldn’t contain the bubble of laughter that spilled out of him. “No, no, I’m off the clock at the moment. “You must know what they say about all work and no play...” He winked at David.

“But you must have some awesome cases you’ve worked on, like finding pearls for a woman who had them stolen by pirates!” David gushed, transfixed by the simple business card and Daniel’s sharp eyes. “Or something like that,” he backpedaled. “Hopefully not too many property disputes.”

His face had never felt hotter.

Daniel’s hand, under the table, patted David’s knee. “You have quite the imagination,” he said with a chuckle. “I can’t say I’ve hunted down pirates before, but I am on a pretty well-known case right now. High profile, a great amount of danger and intrigue, excellent pay...” he trailed off, his grin pulling into a shitty smirk. “I guess you could even say...”

David knew this tone. His eyes shone up at Daniel in the flickering candlelight.

“I’m trying to... catch a profit,” Daniel finished, beaming at his own brilliance.

David giggled. Then he stopped, agape.

“The Prophet? You’re on that case too?”

“Why, of course,” Daniel said slyly. “And it seems I’m quite good at my job, because I’ve just found out yours.”

David pressed his lips together in a line, his blush blazing in mortification. “I thought you knew,” he mumbled, turning away.

“That you were a cop?” Daniel replied, his voice a stage whisper. “I was almost certain. But you of all people should know how good and damning a proper confession is.”

“Yeah, but, I’m not here for the Prophet,” David said carefully. “That’s my day job. This case is... mine.”

“Ah,” Daniel smirked, looking David up and down. “Sometimes I like to solve mysteries in my spare time too.” He leaned back more comfortably in his seat.

“But this is amazing!” David gasped, picking up the card again, excitement renewed. “We’re on the same team and everything! We could-- Oh my gosh, we could work on the case together! I bet you’ve found some things we’ve missed, and my partner just found a huge new lead today!” he babbled, taking out his wallet and slipping Daniel’s business card inside, just next to Jasper’s Blue Peacock rewards card. “Wait,” he froze, closing the wallet, “who hired you for this case then?”

“The commissioner, Campbell. He’s very ‘all hands on deck’ for this one,” Daniel coolly replied.

“You’ve got that right,” David smiled. “That’s incredible! We’ve got the same boss and everything!”

“I don’t work very closely with the commissioner, to be fair,” Daniel conceded. “He just called me one day, hired me to do a few outside investigations, double check some work, and...that’s it.”

“Did he say anything about me?” David asked, lighting up all over again.

“Uh, hmm,” Daniel thought, bringing one fingertip to his lips. “Not that I can recall.”

David sighed, deflating. “It was a long shot. But you should ask him about me when he calls for an update! He can tell you how trustworthy I am! All the cases I’ve solved!”

Daniel leaned close. “I don’t need to speak with the commissioner to see how trustworthy you are.”

David was pretty sure that if any more blood rose in his face, his heart would stop beating.

“Thank you,” he said slowly, in astonishment.

They sat quietly for a moment, Daniel picking a loose thread from his sleeve and David trying to remember how to breathe.

“So,” Daniel spoke first, “what’s the lead?” He didn’t look up.

“Hm?” David blinked.

“You said your partner found a new lead on this Prophet case. May I ask what that lead is?”

David considered it for a long moment. Telling Daniel would mean going through and hashing out the facts, making sure everything fit, having another view and another brain filtering through this case. But he and Gwen couldn’t make a claim that bold without more investigation and they had agreed not to tell anyone else yet, and besides...David didn’t want Daniel to laugh at him.

But David had an urge, a need, to impress the private eye.

And then he remembered what he had forgotten.

Max.

“Oh, yeah! The guy who ran from the Blue Peacock,” David started conspiratorially.

Daniel’s eyes widened, pinning David. “Theodore, right? He was in the paper this morning?”

“We finally went public with his disappearance today, but I think the commissioner was too hasty,” David explained. “Because... someone came forward. A... witness. They say they saw lights on and a hearse outside just before Theodore disappeared.”

“Interesting...” Daniel muttered. “I’ll have to look into this witness of yours.”

“They’re anonymous,” David blurted out. “Just a tip I’m supposed to check out.”

“You have my number now,” Daniel hummed, the self-assured smile creeping back over his face. “Give me a ring if you want another pair of eyes.”

David swallowed. He set his hands on his own lap, and felt the side of his hand brush against Daniel’s knee the same way Daniel had done earlier.

It heated up as if he’d lit his hand, quickly followed by the rest of himself, on fire.

\---

Gwen did her second slow pass around the block. David had been inside for a little over an hour, the post-midnight atmosphere as still as death for a city supposedly crawling with alcohol and gangs. She had busied herself at first by going through the Prophet file while parked with her windshield under a yellow streetlamp. The sheer volume of information quickly saturated her tired mind, and she turned to other questions. Questions she only let herself ponder when she was alone.

Had she fought to become a cop because she had something to prove? Or did she feel like she had to prove something because being a cop was difficult for someone like her? Was Campbell taking their gas money out of her paycheck, or David’s? Would she ever get that promotion to full officer she yearned for? What drove a woman to murder?

Had that beautiful Jen lady been flirting with her?

Gwen slapped her cheeks a few times. The lack of sleep was getting to her.

She parked in front of the pawn shop for a moment. Just one patron wandering drunk and she could snatch up that promotion - and destroy David’s only lead, she chided herself. With a sigh, she began pulling away from the curb.

And stopped.

As many times as she had been down this street in the past three days - dropping David off, picking him back up, and driving around the block a handful of times - she’d never looked up.

There, on a simple wooden sign above the pawn shop door, a name. Kevin’s Pawn.

Kevin.

Hadn’t Jen asked her something about a Kevin?

...Had David ever told her the owner’s name was Kevin?

Gwen drove to the end of the block and then a little ways further. Down on this part of the street, several restaurants stood quiet and dark, their signs offering homestyle clam soup and mama’s handmade spinach puffs and roasts with potatoes from prices ranging from “probably fair” to “highway robbery,” in Gwen’s opinion. Some of the buildings had been built nearly on top of each other, greying brick blending into dull concrete. And some had a maze of alleys between them, which could stop at a wall or intersect with another alley or simply come out one street over.

Gwen leaned forward to look up at the apartments on top of a few of the restaurants, wondering how well the occupants were sleeping with a killer hiding somewhere in the city.

Jen... where had she said she’d worked? Gwen considered driving down just to see what the place looked like. No other reason. A funeral home that employed someone with such a strong sense of style had to have some interesting design choices.

She checked her watch. Another half an hour at least before David would start down the block. With a sigh, she slumped back in her seat and turned the key to kill the engine.

Five minutes passed. She found herself gnawing on her thumbnail and forcefully stopped herself, staring down at the ragged edge. With a grumble, she placed both hands on the steering wheel and clenched until her knuckles went white.

Five more minutes passed. She was tapping her foot now, hard enough to make the car shake. She rolled down the window and let in the crisp night air.

The soft sound of shoes clicking on sidewalk drifted in on the chill night breeze. Gwen lifted her head, scanning the dark street.

Several cars, some similar in make to the police model T she was hiding in, sat cold like a solemn audience with headlights peeking from alleyways and behind other cars. A street lamp flickered half a block down. Something small and fast -probably a stray cat, Gwen hoped - darted across the road.

A man in a shabby red shirt and a short, scruffy beard wove his way out of the night, between a pile of garbage and and alley wall. He skirted behind the car Gwen sat in and into the street.

Gwen barely dared to breathe, her eyes following him as he crossed with his head down. He held a small box, no more than four inches on a side, tucked protectively under his arm. The man made his way down a bit more sidewalk and to the front of one of the restaurants, where he stopped, glanced about, and turned the corner beyond.

The Blue Peacock - aptly named for the metal sculpture of the titular bird, tail draped like a wall of silver ivy down one side of the awning where the bird sat - had once been a small bank, and the heavy stone brick looked tough enough to stop a car. The canvas overhang looked black in the starlight, but Gwen knew in the day it was a beautiful deep teal to match a peacock’s coloration.

The man poked back out a moment later, searching carefully for prying eyes before tiptoeing his way to the awning, and the sculpture.

Gwen squinted and watched as he ducked behind the waterfall of steel feathers, and when he reemerged, the box was gone.

She could feel her pulse racing, a deep thrum under her skin.

She sat like a statue, waiting as the man melted back into the shadows behind the Blue Peacock.

That could have been anything, Gwen caught herself hesitating. She shouldn't go out there alone, with David in a speakeasy and counting on her to be here if he needed a fast getaway car.

But what was in the box? She couldn't contain herself. That could be a clue, or better yet, a promotion.

It had to be illegal, at least.

Quietly, she shoved open the car door and climbed out. Her polished shoes hit the pavement with two soft clicks. She didn't close it all the way, avoiding the clatter of the metal latch.

The closest light flickered out.

And then she began creeping her way across the street, hand tucked inside her coat and palm on her loaded pistol. She crept forward on the balls of her feet, heels never touching the ground.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Barely audible, even to her, over the gentle spring breeze. She ducked behind a car on the other side of the road just as the light flickered back on.

The man peered around the corner, and Gwen sped her steps. She was twenty feet from the Blue Peacock’s front door now. Fifteen. Ten.

When he rounded the corner, assured of his safety, he found a gun leveled at his heart.

“Don't,” Gwen commanded, calm but stern.

He didn't.

Kevin sucked in a quick breath and lifted his hands, lips pulled tight in a grim line.

Gwen led with, “What the fuck are you doing? And what’s in the box?”

“Oh shit,” Kevin rumbled, “you saw that? I, uh, was just delivering a package.” He couldn't seem to decide where to look, his eyes flicking between her face, her gun, and his own shoes.

“In front of a crime scene?” she asked sarcastically, motioning to the building with her gun.

“I know, right? My client insisted,” he grumbled, slowly lowering his hands. “I even said it was stupid.”

“Who is your client?” Gwen demanded, swinging the gun back around to point to his chest.

Kevin ducked and raised his hands again. “I can't say! I just drop the things off where I'm told!”

“The things?” she pressed, pointing her thumb at the sculpture where he'd left the box.

Kevin's brow burst out in a sweat. “Yeah, just, things,” he tried, wincing away from the gun.

“So you won't mind if I go open the box? Gwen smiled sweetly.

The dishonest smile reminded him of Jen, in a way.

“It’s, uh, it's drugs,” he stammered. “I'm a dealer, it's... it's just drugs.”

“Oh, a dealer!” Gwen dismissed with fake shock. “What kinds of drugs, then? What silly names can you think up? Quick!”

“Uh, I don't mean no offense, lady,” Kevin grumbled, “but you look like you could use some of my product. When’s the last time you slept?”

Gwen paused, a smart response dying on her tongue. When was the last time she'd slept through the night? She took a moment and considered what she must look like right now: hair ruffled from taking off her police cap at the end of her shift, dark circles reaching all the way to the bottoms of her eye sockets, expression unhinged at best, wielding a gun. No wonder this dealer was acting so horrified.

She took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and slowly lowered the weapon. “Okay sir, no quick movements, let's just talk.”

“I’d like that a lot better,” Kevin mumbled, letting his hands hang at his sides. “So, you that girl cop then?”

Gwen felt her hackles rise, but tamped it down. “I am, yes.”

“I could see the chip on your shoulder,” he muttered, suddenly more confident now that the gun was aimed at the pavement.

Gwen let her lip curl. “That's funny, because you didn't see me walk all the way down the fucking street following you.”

“Uh, sorry,” Kevin backpedaled. “I mean I don't blame you. I mean,” he scratched at his beard, “there's just the one of you, right?”

Gwen fixed Kevin with a venomous glare.

“No, _shit_ , I mean, it's just, I know your partner!” Kevin blurted out, waving his hands. “David, right? Met him two days ago. He's in my, uh, pawn shop?” Kevin offered, trying to be discreet.

Gwen blinked as she connected a few of the dots. “You’re Kevin, then?”

She waited for him to nod, and then tucked her gun away under her arm.

“Drugs _and_ alcohol, Kevin, really?” she smirked, but this time it was cautiously friendly.

“Just tryin’ to keep the lights on,” Kevin said with half a shrug. “I know it's real illegal but I ain't hurting anybody, I'm no Prophet.”

“I don't know that for sure,” Gwen pointed out.

Kevin let himself give a wary smile. “I've gotten caught twice in two days, I'm helpin’ cops, and you put your gun away.”

Gwen considered for a moment. “You have a point,” she conceded. “I'm getting the feeling you're an honest guy, actually. Regardless of... all this.”

“So you'll, uh, let me go then?” Kevin asked hopefully.

“If you don't mind me taking this box,” Gwen replied smoothly, smiling back like a crocodile.

“N-no, you can’t,” Kevin spluttered, “‘cause, once you take the drugs, you can’t just have them, so you’re gonna report them, and then you gotta say where you got ‘em, and then I’ll get arrested and I can’t help David!”

Gwen nodded along, but froze when he brought up David.

“Is that a threat?” she shot back, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Kevin raised his hands again even though her gun sat safely holstered. “I can’t run the place if you arrest me, that’s just a fact!”

Gwen sucked in a huge breath, and slowly, quietly, groaned. “Fine,” she grumbled, looking and sounding like she couldn’t hate her own words any more, “I’ll let you off with a warning this time, because my hands are fucking tied, but Kevin, seriously.” She drew up to her full height, and stepped closer until she was right up in his face. “Knock it. The fuck. Off.”

“Y-yes ma’am.” He kept his hands up, leaning away from her fury.

“I catch you doing that shit again,” she warned, “I’m tossing your ass in jail, missing cops be damned.”

“Okay, okay, you won’t.” He took a step back and, suddenly sweating a bit less, glanced down at a golden watch on his thin wrist. “I...can I go close up? I’ll go straight there, officer, I--”

Gwen slapped a hand over her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, taking a step back. “If I let you go, you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Not a soul. I’m already an inch from the chopping block just doing my job, this would get me super-fired.”

“Who am I going to tell that I got caught sneaking out of a, uhm, tea shop,” Kevin grimaced, “to sell drugs?”

Gwen poked him, hard, in the sternum. “Not. A. Word.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” Kevin vowed, crossing a finger over his heart.

Gwen, still not satisfied, jabbed him again. “If you fuck me over, Kevin,” she growled, “I will spill everything. I will wreck your shit.”

“I swear to God!” he hissed, stumbling back and rubbing his sternum.

“Then... fuck,” she spat. “Go.”

Kevin nodded respectfully before scurrying into the darkness, wiping his forehead with his already dirty sleeve. He checked over his shoulder as he began heading the long way around, just in case.

But Gwen didn’t touch the box, or the statue, and Kevin saw her start to make her way back to her car with a sour expression plastered to her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun facts!
> 
> -Look up a union suit PLEASE you won't regret it. Every man (and probably also Gwen) is wearing one at all times. They were widely used under suits and other professional clothes so that laundering wouldn't be necessary as often, which is why David wearing the same outfit to the speakeasy 2 days in a row wouldn't be weird (and Daniel wearing a different one speaks of possible affluence.)
> 
> -Deadly nightshade, or belladonna, is a well-known poison, but Jen isn't lying about the eye thing. It's still poison though. Please don't put it in your eyes even if historically that was a thing people really did.
> 
> Thank you for reading! The plot is starting to thicken, but we still have 15 chapters to go...? Hmm...
> 
> To everyone who has taken the time to leave a review, or even multiple reviews: Thank you so, so much you are giving me life~
> 
> Please, feel free to tell me where you think this is going! It's very helpful when I'm trying to figure out if I'm being too obvious or hiding too much information!


	4. The first dance is always free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David is reminded of his real goal as the case goes stale. Can they solve a case where the only consistent clue is still just a hunch?
> 
> Sometimes, the greatest breakthroughs come from happenstance and a little bit of letting loose.
> 
> Campbell puts on some theatrics. Nikki digs up some dirt. Jen has her eye on Kevin's goods. Daniel cuts a rug. Gwen has a bad week all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is sponsored by the letter O, for oh god I am the slowest typer on the damn planet and this is a longass chapter
> 
> The chapter title is lyrics from "Bad Boy, Good Man" by Tape Five, which is also the song the fic title comes from because it's a good fuckin' song okay?
> 
> Edit: Italics have been fixed!
> 
> Two more chapters until the end of act 1, please enjoy the ride!

David woke with a start. “Jasper, I-” he gasped, sitting straight up. He blinked in the pre-dawn light, where everything looked grey and nothing felt real.

It took several seconds for his hands to stop shaking.

He sat, pale and thin and hunched over in bed for a few minutes, starting at his duvet but seeing something very different in his mind's eye.

He took a deep, fortifying breath. His union suit - grey, like everything else in the twilight - slid over his thin chest, ribs visible under his scrawny muscle. He exhaled, the fabric sinking with him. David scrubbed his hands over his face, ran them through his hair.

It may have been a nightmare, but it hadn't ended when he woke up.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

He stumbled out of bed - little more than a cot - and pulled a threadbare cotton robe over his union suit. It wasn't much, just a fading red smoking jacket-style robe that he pulled tight around himself, tying the sash over his hip. He pushed open the bathroom door first, splashed water on his face, relieved himself, and then stood absentmindedly washing his hands as he stared out the bathroom window. It was only useful for venting steam during a shower, a foot wide and half a foot tall, facing the blank concrete wall of the tenement neighboring him.

He shut off the tap with a squeak. Coffee. He still had to get coffee. David tapped his way barefoot across the bathroom tile, over the wooden bedroom floor, and out over the kitchen tile. He hissed at the cold, but busied himself with the kettle.

Once he'd set the kettle on his single-burner stove and lit it with a match, he stood back, unsure of how to occupy himself until it came to a boil.

His eyes landed on the most expensive thing he owned, sitting on a little side table in his tiny living room. His victrola.

It was a little bit old-looking now, the brass horn dented and a touch tarnished, the wooden base scratched here and there from moving. It had been a parting gift from his parents. They wanted him to have something joyful to remind him of them, the farm, his home. A reminder to keep his smile even in the bustle and the smog of the city.

He needed his smile now more than ever.

With the kettle beginning to bubble and the coffee beans sitting ready in his little manual grinder, David decided to turn on some music for the first time in a while.

He slid his finger over the dust on his bookshelf, and slid out one of his three records. It was aged now, but familiar and nostalgic. He set it on the turntable and moved the arm over, lining the needle up with the groove as the record spun.

After a short zipping noise and a crackle, a cheerful jazzy tune began. David tapped his foot with the beat nodding his head along as trumpets, saxophones, and a smoky voice joined in.

He found himself grinning slowly, and then shuffling back and forth on his simple living room rug. With a chuckle, he let himself pretend he had a partner on his arm and began to sway and bounce in a one-person foxtrot.

As the kettle began to squeal over the music, he stopped, and realized he'd been holding his arms out for a shadowy blond man.

\---

Gwen yawned hugely, dumping the last of her coffee from a massive thermos into her mug.

“You ready for another boring old house?” she asked, turning to David in the driver’s seat.

“I think the dried blood makes it not boring by definition,” David said with a grin. “It’s the third victim, Gwen! The oldest preserved scene we have!”

“This isn’t the one where the Prophet earned her name, is it?” Gwen asked, taking a long sip.

David reached into the back seat and fished out the reports from the case file and thumbed through them. “I think that was the fifth one,” he muttered, dropping a few papers in his lap as he searched for the right one.

“Is this the radio guy?” Gwen recalled, reaching over and pulling one of the pages off of David’s lap.

“Lester!” David said with a flourish, pulling out a paper and dropping the rest in a messy stack. “Yeah, he’s the radio guy, he fixed phones sometimes too, um...”

“He got seduced and killed,” Gwen added. “That’s why we’re here.”

David scooted the reports off of his lap and returned them to the back seat. “That’s true,” he mumbled and popped the door open. “This one is so early on, the killer didn’t have a defined method yet. He, or she I guess, she must have made a mistake somewhere...”

 

“And we’re going to find it,” Gwen nodded, leaning hard on her door to open it up.

She drained the rest of her mug and set it on her seat as she stepped out of the police car.

David followed suit, scanning the report before tossing it into the backseat and locking the car.

“So, master Goodfellow was there again last night!” David hissed, excited but careful. The neighborhood Lester had once lived in was no upper east side, but it was nice, with yards bordered in idyllic gardens and white picket fences like an envelope blanketed in postage stamps. A few of the neighbors poked their heads up over their fences at the sight of a police car, waiting for the subject of their next gossip session.

And David didn’t want to be that subject.

“Oh, yeah? Did you ‘just talk’ again?” Gwen asked sarcastically, following about a foot behind David and focusing on staying the right distance away from him while also lifting her feet as little as possible.

“Y-yeah,” David shivered, the poker chip warm in his coat’s breast pocket. “It turns out he’s a detective too! A privately, uh, hired one.”

“You mean one of those private investigators?” Gwen groaned. “Those flashy washed up ex-cops who think they’re going to impress people by doing their damn job?” she groused, her face remaining tiredly impassive. “All you gotta do to be a private investigator is say you're a private investigator,” she continued, punctuating by kicking at a rock on Lester's sidewalk.

“That's not very nice,” David frowned. “Daniel is a proper gentleman, and a kind and interesting one at that,” he scolded over his shoulder. “Campbell has been hiring private investigators to help shore up the case against the Prophet whenever we catch him.” He paused. “Her.”

“You really like him, don't you?” she grumbled again.

David stopped and nearly missed the step up to Lester's old house. “I do, Gwen,” he smiled, “there's just something about him. I don't know what it is. I think I'm...” he trailed off, his expression vacant. “I think I'm scared of him. But,” he shook his head. “He's intimidating, I guess, because he's so intense. I feel like he knows everything about me just by looking at me.”

Gwen cracked one eye further open to look at David's soft, confused smile despite the dark circles under his eyes, the tiny smear of chocolate on his sleeve, his hair ruffled and sticking out from under his hat.

“Can't imagine why,” she yawned.

David held out his palm, and Gwen dropped a silver house key into it. With a bit of jiggling and a solid shove, David popped the door in.

“I think it's because he's a very astute detective,” David went on, tapping his shoes on the lintel before stepping into the crime scene. “I could learn a lot from him!”

“Mm.” Gwen didn't argue, rolling her eyes as she followed suit.

David flipped the light switch, which produced no light. He tried a few more times, just in case.

“Campbell isn't paying electricity on these crime scenes,” Gwen noted, walking deeper into the room.

Thankfully it was still mid-morning, the sky overcast but not too dark. Gwen pulled open the drapes above the kitchen sink, light - and dust - pouring in.

The kitchen held a powder blue fridge, charming checkerboard tiles, a card table with three folding chairs set up around it, and off-white cupboards. Gwen glanced around for blood on the corners of counters and the grout between tiles, but wasn't surprised when a cursory search turned up nothing.

“We all have the same boss too!” David said happily. “Daniel, I mean. We could all work on the case together for a day or so, maybe. If you think that's a good idea.”

Gwen sighed. “Did you guys talk about work in the fucking speakeasy then?”

David froze halfway through opening a cupboard. “I mean yeah, a little bit, quietly. Very quietly!”

“David,” Gwen scolded, “you're supposed to be undercover. To everybody. Even this detective guy. We don't know who we can trust with any information about Jasper.”

“Jasper?” David repeated, now staring up at the light fixture for clues. “I didn't talk about him. I only mentioned the Prophet case, I swear...” He took his tiny notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, then uncapped his pen.

Gwen made a sarcastic noise of disbelief. “You’re certain? You didn't tell this guy anything too important, I hope.” She side eyed him, waiting for his reaction.

“I didn't tell him about your hunch, Gwen. The only thing I mentioned that hasn't been written in the newspapers is--”

David froze again, this time dropping his notepad, clumsily juggling it as it slipped to the ground. It hit the checkerboard tile with a slap just as David hissed, “oh no, the newspaper!” and wheeled around to turn his apologetic face on Gwen.

“The newspaper?” Gwen prompted, looking a little more awake.

“I forgot to tell you what Max saw in the newspaper!” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “About the Blue Peacock!”

“Well stop being dramatic and spit it out!” Gwen ordered.

“He said he saw someone in there the same night Theodore allegedly ran off, but with just a couple lights on. And a hearse out back! When he was delivering papers!” David gasped, his eyes big and scared.

“Wait, wait,” Gwen lifted her hands like she was trying to make an oncoming train stop. “He saw a fucking hearse? Did... Do you think Theodore could have killed somebody? A hearse...” she thought out loud. “That sounds like a cover up.”

“That's exactly what I said!” David lied. “You think it's important?”

“I think this is huge, David. And you told that private eye before me?” she groused, crossing her arms over her chest. “But just think about it, a hearse! At that time in the morning?” She began to pace. “And then Theodore fled to, you know, another continent?” Gwen pulled out a folding chair and collapsed into it.

David bent and retrieved his notepad. “And the Prophet hasn't killed anyone since then...” he muttered, writing down _someone died in Blue Peacock._

“Theodore was the Prophet?” Gwen considered, staring down at her polished shoes. “No... Theodore killed the Prophet and then ran to avoid murder charges?”

“Max thinks the Prophet killed Theodore and then made it look like he fled, but I told him that's silly. The Prophet doesn't hide kills, she wants everyone to see them.” David wrote down a few more words in his notebook - _someone might be the Prophet, but probably not._

“So what you're saying is, we know some combination of Theodore, the Prophet, and someone else were in the Blue Peacock that night. Or at least two of those three. And one of them died, but we don't know which one,” Gwen rambled, her eyes looking more exhausted than ever, “unless nobody died, in which case something else happened, and there just happened to be a hearse.” She brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed at them. “And Theodore did or didn't flee, and if he did, why? And if he didn't, who made it look he did?”

“I'll make a table in my notebook,” David offered, scribbling down an illegible grouping of names and symbols within a few lines he scratched in.

“There's too many possibilities,” Gwen groaned, “it means something though, but... we can't be sure it has to do with the Prophet. Not every crime in this city can be tied to the Prophet.”

David crossed out his table with a sigh. “Yeah, and we're already on this case, and I'm not finding any leads on Jasper's case,” he added solemnly. “We can't just take on a third case...”

“I, for one, am not up for another set of paperwork and case notes,” Gwen grunted, reaching towards the table for a mug that wasn’t there before pausing and looking down at her hand.

“...But I did promise Max we would look into it,” David finished smoothly, not meeting Gwen’s eyes.

“David...” Gwen grumbled, setting her face in her palms and her elbows on the card table.

“You don’t have to come!” David said quickly, “I just... Max seemed scared about the whole thing.”

“Fuck you David, of course I’m coming,” Gwen mumbled, dropping her forearms onto the table and collapsing face-first into them. “What are we doing here? There’s not even anything in this damn kitchen,” she huffed, motioning without lifting her head.

“Do you want to check the bedroom? I can try in the den,” David offered, patting her shoulder.

“Where was the body even found?” Gwen asked, rolling to her side so she could give David a miserable look.

David scratched the side of his head. “Uhh, Lester was... laying on the rug in the den, holding a rosary,” he recounted. “Which is weird, because Lester wasn’t Catholic.”

“And this is the first one we have a crime scene for? Strange.” Gwen picked herself up in several stages, stretching, her back popping in several places. “Okay, den first. Let’s get this over with.”

David faithfully followed after her, trying to peer past her as she slipped through a doorway with no door and into the much darker den.

“Clearly a bachelor,” Gwen noted as she stepped deeper inside, motioning at the single armchair in front of a low table that held a small radio and a set of tools.

The back of the radio hung open, a few wires and a dusty glass tube extracted and pushed to one side.

“Some hobby,” Gwen sniffed.

“What's this other chair?” David asked, pointing a folding chair leaning against the back wall.

“I think it's from the kitchen,” Gwen thought aloud with a glance and a lean to peer back through the doorway.

“But what is it doing here? And folded up?” David continued. “Did Lester have company?”

“Yeah,” Gwen said, “the Prophet. That's her chair.”

David gasped and started towards it, but Gwen held out her arm. He bumped into it and stopped, blinking at her.

“What's--” he started.

Gwen pointed at a shape on the floor. “There's the murder site.”

Lester's carpet had once been a basic, short brown, now stained even darker with a massive amount of blood. A rectangular outline in the stain showed where a rug had once been, under the body, which the original investigators had tossed out after they had hauled Lester away.

“Look here,” Gwen pointed at the table, “everything was pushed to one side hastily,” she explained, “and a second chair...”

David hummed. “She seduced Lester,” he began his theory, “who was a gentleman and cleared some space, and she killed him.” He scratched his ear with his blunt nails.

“Look for anything even slightly out of the ordinary,” Gwen instructed. “If this is the earliest crime scene we have, then it's the most likely to have a mistake.”

David nodded excitedly. “There has to be something here that will crack the case!” He began his search around the murder location first, dropping to his knees and touching the dried blood.

“How old is the crime scene?” Gwen asked, digging the toe of her black, polished shoe into a corner of the stair, tearing up a couple of the fibers.

“Almost two years,” David sighed. “A little more than a year and a half.”

“She's killed another nine people since this,” Gwen sighed, grinding down a little harder.

David lifted his head, scowling with determination. “And that's why we're going to find something good!”

Gwen gave him a tired smile. “If you say so,” she muttered, sounding grumpier than she looked. She trudged over to the mustard yellow armchair and began running her hands over the cushions.

David peered out over the room for a long moment, trying to piece together a story with his surroundings the way Gwen had done with the case. Clearly Lester had sat in his well-worn chair, which Gwen was now elbow deep inside, and pushed aside his radio parts to make room for something. David noted the radio tubes stacked on the man's mantle, the collection oh antennae cluttering one corner, the three different toolboxes spread throughout the room - and the lack of care he'd used to push the radio parts out of the way. It seemed out of character, but maybe Lester had liked something even more than electronics.

He had most definitely been a bachelor, and David knew the one thing bachelors were most likely to make their dearest possessions for.

“Wine,” he whispered, just as Gwen chimed in.

“Wine,” she said, nearly at the same time. She held up the piece of fabric that protected one of the chair armrests from wear, and pointed at a stain. Burgundy, faded, and the edges difficult to pick out against the yellow because they had turned a strange amber color. “It's a wine stain,” she clarified, turning it around to look at it again, “but I don't know why it's turning this weird color on the edges like this.”

“That other stain had that too,” David gasped.

 _Weird wine,_ he jotted down.

“So she's bringing them wine?” Gwen wondered. “Twice could still be a coincidence, but... Wine is difficult to get ahold of as it is, and this is clearly the same kind of wine.”

“I don't know what kinds of wine even exist with the laws the way they are,” David said. “Maybe the only wine people can get their hands on is weird somehow? We're cops. Nobody is going to show us what kind of wine they're selling.”

“Okay, okay, true,” Gwen grumbled, folding and pocketing the square of fabric. “That's something to look for at other scenes, though. Does the wine at Kevin's place do this?”

“I... don't break the law, Gwen. I haven't had any, and I haven't really looked for year-old wine stains on the seats.” David shook his head. “I bet Daniel would know.”

“I still can't believe you gave him that lead before you told me,” Gwen sulked.

“I'm really sorry, Gwen,” David said with every bit of sincerity he could summon. “A lot happened yesterday. I just, forgot,” he tried to explain. “And then he was talking to me about the case and it's the only thing I knew would, um...” he trailed off.

Gwen turned to see if David had found something.

He crouched beside the blood, touching his own cheek. His expression was strange and unfocused, cheeks red with blush.

“Oh,” Gwen gasped, realization hitting. “Oh my god. You wanted to impress him?” She prompted. “You wanted to impress him, didn't you?”

David didn't look up from the carpeting. “I... yeah, I... maybe? I think...” he stammered, “oh gosh...” His voice was soft, a little scared. “I feel so weird around him, Gwen. He put his arm around my shoulders when he greeted me and all night I was,” he whispered, “so warm. I think he gave me a cold.” He pressed his hand to his forehead to feel for a fever.

“Tell me about him,” Gwen said, a smile cutting through her exhaustion. She sat with her back to Lester's chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Okay, yeah, so you can identify him? Okay,” he nodded, turning on the carpeting to face Gwen. “He's so stylish, he always wears a nice three piece suit, last night he didn't have his jacket with, but he had his sleeves rolled up a few times, and his eyes!” David gasped. “They're so clever and intense, he's always watching, and he sees right through me, Gwen. And he's always wearing hats, but his hair is really nice! It looks soft. He's blond by the way!” he listed off. “He's tall and slender, but he always shows me around by steering me because he's strong.”

Gwen's grin widened, knowing and smug. “What about his hands?” she asked, stifling a happy laugh. “Can you describe them?”

“Um,” David murmured, “he wears these leather gloves that stop here,” he confessed, pointing on his own arm where palm met wrist. “They're black, and very tight, and, um,” he squeaked, hiding his red face in his hands.

Gwen covered her mouth with her palm, trying not to laugh. “You like him, David,” she said through her hand. “He sounds handsome.”

“What?!” David squeaked again, looking across the messy table at her with wide eyes.

“David, I'm not going to arrest you for finding him handsome or whatever,” Gwen chuckled. “Have you thought about kissing him?”

David froze, the color draining from his face. He touched two fingers to his lips, and let himself consider it for a fleeting moment.

Would his lips be soft and warm? Chapped and tangy with tobacco and whiskey? Would he let David touch his cheek? Would he nip David's lips with those perfect white teeth?

He imagined Daniel's strong arms around his shoulders and back, the gentle nudge of his nose on David's cheek, the insistence of his kiss.

“O-Oh,” David shivered, diving his face into his hands. The red blossomed all the way up to the tips of his ears, which was the only part of him Gwen could see.

“I knew it,” Gwen beamed. “You want to kiss him.”

David pulled his knees up to his chest.

“It's okay, David,” she soothed. “I didn't tell you why it took me so long to come looking for you when you left the pharmacy, did I?”

He shook his head, still silent and hiding.

“A beautiful girl came in and I didn't know what to do with myself,” she admitted.

David lifted his head. “That's... allowed?” he whispered. “I've never heard of someone, um,” he trailed off, looking more confused than ever.

“You might want to stay quiet about it,” Gwen warned him, “but, you like who you like. You're allowed.”

David nodded at her, eyes huge and scared. “Really? I'm not... bad?”

“David, look at you. You're the most goodie-two-shoes cop on the force,” she reassured him. “Some laws are just stupid.”

“I don't want to be a bad cop,” David mumbled, steadying himself with a palm on the floor. He took a deep breath, which rattled on the way in but came out smooth.

“You're not, David,” she scolded him gently. “You're definitely not a bad cop. You wouldn't be getting a promotion if you were.”

David perked up a little at that. “I guess not,” he sighed, starting to stand again. “Are you sure I didn't do a bad thing by telling him about the case, because I wanted to impress him?”

“Only time will tell, David,” Gwen said, standing beside him. “I've done dumber things to impress pretty people. Chin up,” she patted his shoulder.

David turned to her, smile soft, but there. “Thanks, Gwen.”

“Yeah. I don't think there's anything left in here,” Gwen quickly said. “Let's go back to the station for now, look some things over, make a new plan of attack,” Gwen suggested. “I'll drive, and...” she elbowed him gently, “there's an ice cream shop on the way.”

David reached for her hand and gave it a quick little squeeze. “I'd like that,” he whispered, his eyes cautiously hopeful again.

\---

“C’mere Wolfy!” Nikki called into the dense hedge. “Wolfy! Here boy!”

“It's not even your damn dog,” Max grumbled, “why waste your food on it?” He kicked a rock on the sidewalk, which hit a white fence with a hollow clunk.

Neil elbowed Max. “It is highly ironic that you say such a thing, considering all the food Nikki's mom gives you,” he scolded.

“Yeah, well, I don't fucking get why she feeds me either. I'm just profiting from it,” Max explained with a shrug.

“Wolfy is more my dog than anyone else's!” Nikki defended herself proudly, crashing through an ornamental shrub with aplomb. “And he's a smart boy! One day he's going to lead us all to buried treasure, or a hidden kingdom, or a creepy cave!” Nikki shouted, and with a running leap, clambered over the fence.

Max tugged his newsboy cap further down, trying to squash his fluffy black hair. “Someone's gonna call the cops on us with her acting like this,” he complained, tugging his collar up too.

“And with you acting like this,” Neil hissed, slapping Max's hands away from his collar. “You look like a hooligan!”

“I am a hooligan, Neil!” Max hissed back, slapping at Neil's hands.

“We're not doing anything wrong!” Neil sputtered, pulling his hands out of slap range. “We're just kids looking for a dog! In broad daylight!”

“Hate to break it to you, Neil,” Max grumbled, “but we are not just kids. You are Jewish as fuck,” he pointed out by backhanding the top inch of Neil's hair and watching it bounce back into place, “I'm an immigrant kid,” he pointed at himself, “and Nikki,” he motioned to the fence, “is a feral girl in trousers. ‘A Jew, an immigrant, and a girl in pants’ sounds like the start of a bar joke I do not want to know the punchline to. And we happen to be loitering in the middle of upper east side, which I apparently need to remind you, is where all the nosy rich people live!” He threw his hands in the air with a shout. Fuming, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and began to pace.

“I mean, there's a good chance David will be the one to show up if someone calls the cops on us anyways,” Neil said smoothly, raising an eyebrow.

“Wouldn't that be just the worst possible fucking outcome here?” Max groaned, searching the upper windows of neighboring houses for angry women with phones.

“Wolfy?” Nikki shouted from somewhere over the fence.

“Yeah, I mean, he's pretty oblivious though. Even if we were doing something illegal, which we are not, I don't think he'd notice,” Neil pointed out.

“What have you got, poochy-woochy?” Nikki kept calling from in the yard.

Max sighed. “I, uh, feel a little sorry for the guy,” he muttered, and then looked at Neil with a blink. “Barely enough brains to put his shoes on,” he quickly explained. “He's gonna get killed within the year with instincts like his.”

“Hey Max?” came Nikki's little voice through the whitewashed wood.

“Yeah, his partner is the only one who has any brains, have you met her?” Neil asked. “She actually makes me a little nervous.”

“Gwen?” Max recalled. “Girl David has a brain?”

“Neil? Max?” Nikki called again.

“She was suspicious in the pharmacy the other day,” Neil said in a hushed voice.

Max snorted. “Tell your dad to hide his shit,” he laughed. “Oh man,” his face fell, “if girl David is suspicious of a Jewish pharmacy, there's got to be a lot more shit going on with that Jasper guy than we know.”

“Max?” Nikki called a little louder. “Wolfy found something.”

“What?” Max shouted back, wincing at his own volume. “You got him? So we can fucking leave?”

“You're going to want to see this,” she called again, and something about the tone of her voice made Max pause.

Max looked at the fence, and then looked at Neil.

“I'm not climbing that,” Neil said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you know how many splinters that fence probably has? And crooked nails! I could get tetanus, Max!”

“Well, I'm not walking the two fucking blocks to get to the front of this rich fucker’s house,” Max groaned. “Just boost me then and go around!”

“Oh okay,” Neil agreed, holding out his hands, fingers interlaced. He centered himself, put his weight on his front leg and lunged the other one backwards to make a nice steady foothold.

“I'm twelve, Neil, you're not lifting a fucking horse,” Max grumbled as he stepped one foot on Neil’s thigh, one hand on Neil's shoulder to steady himself. “You don't need this power stance shit, fucking nerd,” he mumbled, and pushed with his other foot in Neil's hands as Neil hoisted.

“Ow, shit,” Neil swore, put Max grabbed the top of the fence and pulled.

The instant he got himself over as far as his armpits, he dangled for a moment, lifting his head.

The house, which had been painted a startlingly putrescent shade of yellow, caught his eye first - but with that many shades drawn and all the lights off, it was unlikely the owner was home.

And then, Max spotted the dog - huge, wolflike, digging a hole in this person’s manicured garden, his grey bottlebrush tail wagging happily as he made a mess.

And then, Max looked down at Nikki.

“Holy fuck,” he hissed. “Neil, get the fuck over here!”

Neil's shoes tapped as he went into a run, breathing hard within five steps.

“What do I do?” Nikki asked.

And held out a cracked human skull.

“Put it down, Jesus Christ!” Max spat, scrambling to get over the fence. “Call the damn dog over here, make sure he doesn't mess anything else up!” he instructed, hooking one leg over and throwing himself down in a tumble. “Neil!” he shouted, watching for his friend to round the fence, “you gotta get one of these nosy white people to call the cops!”

“Max?” Neil called from across the yard, behind the gate. “Do you happen to know whose house this is?”

His voice, too, held that hint of barely-contained panic that had given Max pause.

Wolfy trotted past, holding what was probably a human leg bone between his teeth and looking proud of himself.

“Does it really matter right now?” Max snapped. “Get the fucking cops!”

Neil opened the gate wide enough for Max to see through the opening and pointed at the mailbox.

“He _is_ the police!” Neil shouted.

Max squinted; the mailbox sat all the way across the yard, but there on the side in massive gothic font, was a surname.

Campbell.

\---

Cameron Campbell slammed his hand on top of the podium, his face so red David was surprised steam hadn't started wailing from his ears.

“This is an outrage!” he shouted down at a room full of reporters with notepads and flashing bulbs. “A complete failure of my entire department! The Prophet is doing this to taunt me, make me feel unsafe in my own home, and I will not stand for it!” He slammed his fist down again and then held it up, a symbol of righteous fury and defiance. Bulbs popped with light in a ripple across the crowd. “He is making a mockery of this city's public defenders, and I will not sleep until he is brought to justice!”

Several reporters clapped. David, standing beside Gwen at the back of the stage, brought his hands up to applaud. Gwen nudged him and he jumped back to attention, embarrassed blush rising in his cheeks.

“This monster may be targeting the common man, but he is also targeting me! He will rue the day he picked a personal fight with the chief public defender of this grand city!” He paused for effect, holding up one finger as more bulbs flashed. “I will take questions now.”

A reporter - a man in coarse working clothes and overalls but wearing a hat with a “press” card tucked into the band - raised his hand fastest. Campbell pointed at him.

“I apologize, sir, but I want to get the question everyone is thinking out of the way!” he shouted up at Campbell. “How do we know you aren't the one who hid those bones on your property?”

A few bulbs flashed over silence. And then Cameron Campbell burst into laughter.

“Me? Are you honestly asking if the commissioner of the city’s entire police force, who understands the ins and outs of the mistakes criminals make and has a list of previously used dumping sites as long as his arm, would put bones on his own property?” He doubled over with laughter, wiping away a fake tear as cameras flashed. He then straightened up again, face stern. “No, this was a threat! This was a clear challenge to my authority! This is not something I will let be swept under the rug! There will be justice!” he shouted, stabbing one of his large fingers against the podium.

“So, no, I won't even dignify this with a real answer. Does anyone have an actual question for me?” he roared.

More bulbs flashed, and hands shot up again. This time, Campbell pointed at a well-dressed young man in a three piece suit who held up a camera as the woman beside him scribbled notes.

“Mister Campbell!” he addressed him.

“Police Commissioner Campbell,” he corrected sharply.

“Yes, yes! Connolly from the Post, you seem sure this is related to the Prophet case. How can you be certain?”

Campbell slammed down his open palm. “He has taunted us once before!” he announced, “with the unidentified torso left in the police station dumpster about eighteen months ago!”

David nodded behind Campbell until Gwen elbowed him again.

“These newly discovered bones appear to be all the missing pieces of that body!” Campbell revealed to a chorus of gasps.

A whisper filled the crowd, pencils scratched on paper, and then shouting and raised hands erupted.

Campbell quieted them with a raised hand. “That is why I am sure this is the Prophet making a mockery of me, and I promise that he will pay with his life!”

More applause. David continued standing at attention, staring with admiration at Campbell’s back.

He pointed at another reporter, an older bearded man who was smoking a cigar indoors.

“You've been on this case for eighteen months, Commissioner,” he drawled, “and, no disrespect meant, but you've made a lot of promises. Where are the results?” he rumbled, voice gravelly with smoke and age.

Several people in the audience began muttering, and a few shouts rang out. Campbell raised his hand again.

A moment of silence. Someone scooted a chair.

“How many serial killers have you caught?” Campbell asked in all seriousness. “I am the commissioner who did all the people called for! I have hunted down the sources of drunkenness plaguing this city, and I worked tirelessly to stamp out these pits of loose morals at the public’s urging, starting the same day the prohibition on alcohol went into effect! And I will catch this killer all the same!” He took a steadying breath, and motioned to the half dozen officers standing at attention behind him.

Which included a very nervous David and an uncomfortable Gwen, who had happened to be at the station in uniform when the call had come in. They had been instructed to stand tall and look professional, and other than David's instinct to applaud his hero, they had done a passable job.

“Our officers of the law have been working around the clock to catch this menace,” Campbell continued, his voice booming as he paraded across the stage in front of them, “and they have found several promising leads just in the last week!”

“What are the leads?!” someone shouted from the audience.

David noticed the sweat pouring down Campbell’s neck, his whole face red under the hot lights.

“Yeah, what leads?” someone else, feminine, shouted. And then the audience started murmuring and raising their hands and scribbling furiously.

Campbell glanced around, his gaze landing squarely on David. He scowled, and turned back to the crowd.

“All of my officers are on the case,” he started, and motioned with his arm to them again, “so I will let some of my best and brightest up-and-coming officers answer this for you, as they have spent even more time in the field than me.” He turned and pointed.

David went rigid, his face white. He took a shaky step forward, and Campbell grabbed his forearm. David smiled as his hero steadied him, but then Campbell leaned in.

“Make it good,” he grit out. “Don't fuck me over, Davey.” He then leaned back and gave David a friendly smile and a pat on the back for the cameras, which flashed as David gave a wooden smile. He stepped up to the podium, grin hiding his fear, and inhaled weakly.

“We have been working on a new lead,” he announced to a transfixed crowd, a hundred pairs of eyes focused solely on him. “My partner, Gwen and I,” he backtracked, “have been returning to the original crime scenes and going over every detail, and...” he trailed off shakily and turned to look back at Gwen.

And an idea, born of desperation and fear, blossomed in his mind.

“Actually, it was my partner Gwen who noticed, so I would rather she explained!” he announced a bit squeakily, scurrying out of the limelight.

Gwen smiled at him as he turned to her, frozen in the flashes.

“Oh god,” she muttered without moving her mouth very much, the smile increasing tenfold in terror. She walked up to the podium as David retreated behind her.

“Okay!” she shouted, her voice too loud as she winced down at the hundred or so waiting faces, all staring up in confusion, worry, doubt.

“I am officer Maddox,” Gwen introduced herself, managing to sound calm, even detached, as her heart thundered behind her ribs.

The reporters and photographers blinked at her, dumbfounded.

“I can't go into as much detail as you would like as this case is still under investigation,” she explained slowly, “but a detail, a possibility, has come up in our lead that the public needs to know for their safety,” she announced, her voice growing firmer and stronger with each word.

Campbell turned to look at David, shooting him a venomous glare.

“It is possible, even likely,” Gwen began, leaning over the podium like Campbell had, “that the serial killer known as the Prophet,” she paused, either for effect or to steady herself or both.

“She is a woman.”

As if she had flipped a switch, camera flashes blinded her, reporters waved their hands in the air, and everyone began shouting.

“She may be seducing her victims!” Gwen shouted over the din, which doubled at her words.

“What does this mean for the men of the city?” one of them shouted. “It took a year and a half to figure that out?” another one hurled her way. “I thought both men and women had been killed?!” a third yelled up at her, before the words became an unintelligible chaos of noise.

“Okay! Okay!” Campbell shouted, lifting his hands and stepping up to Gwen. “Thank you officer, um,” he dismissed her to stand back beside David, who clapped her amicably on the shoulder as the clamor died down to hushed confusion.

“As you can see,” he boomed over them, “we are examining this case from every possible angle! This is just one possibility my rookie team is investigating at this time!” he reassured them.

But the crowded press continued their strange looks, their hushed whispers, the crowd uneasy. A few of them pointed at Gwen.

“What I want you to take away from this,” Campbell slammed his fist on the podium again, “is knowing that your police force understands that this is a frightening time! It is a frightening time for all of us! But we will not stop looking for every scrap of information, every mistake this psychopath has made! We are all here working our asses off, and we will not stop until this killer is in the electric chair!” He held up his hand in another heroic pose, but this time, only three or four flashes went off and the muttering continued. “That will be all!” he finished, his tone dark, and stepped back from the podium.

Reporters began shouting questions behind him, but Campbell pointed to his officers and then the door off to one side.

Once they stepped into Town Hall proper, Campbell dropped a heavy hand on David and Gwen’s shoulders. They turned back, surprised, almost in unison.

His face had gone beet red as he seethed.

“I told you not to fuck me over, David,” he said, too calm. “That was easily the worst press conference of my entire career,” he continued.

And then he rounded on Gwen.

“And you!” he hissed, “what kind of a nutjob is actually going to believe a woman could do this? Our whole investigation, our _whole department_ , looks like a joke!”

“I -” Gwen blurted, eyes narrowed.

Campbell looked between the two of them. “I don't want to hear any complaints. You two are on probation until I decide otherwise, and you're off this case until you get your heads screwed on straight!”

“But -” David tried, just as Gwen stammered, “you, he -”

“No complaints!” he barked, and David threw up a salute.

Gwen flinched, her eyebrows drawn together and her hands balled into fists.

“This is a PR nightmare,” he muttered. “Bones in my yard should have made the public understand that we’re all in danger, even me, and in just a few words--”

“It makes sense though,” Gwen interrupted, her voice shaking. “We keep finding no evidence of violence, no signs of breaking in, wine at every scene and even in bedrooms, all signs of seduction as a part of the m.o.,” she said quickly.

“And the women who were killed?” Campbell shot back.

“Some women like women!” Gwen shouted at him, her mouth forming the words before her brain caught up.

David swallowed audibly, his hand still held up in his instinctual salute and not looking at either of them.

Gwen glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and with a sigh that could have been a sob, she broke away from Campbell and ducked the hallway away from the press conference room.

“Put your hand down, David,” Campbell ordered, quieter now.

David obeyed, hiding his fear under his too-wide smile.

“Look,” Campbell muttered a bit stiffly, “I’m not... you’re not fired, let me make that very clear,” he said almost apologetically, “but this just became very dangerous, and I have an entire department to protect. We in turn protect the whole city. If the public has a poor opinion of me, of... us, all of us, then they won’t trust us to do our jobs. They will turn on us, defund us, or,” he took a shaky breath, “worse. Public opinion is everything for a public defender, Davey. Got that? And with bones to one of the victims found on my property, this was possibly the most important press conference of my life!”

The color started to drain from Campbell’s face, red anger paling to white fear.

“Sir, then... why did you put me on the spot like that if it was so important?” David asked gently, his voice cracking.

“Because you’re a full officer now, Davey! I had the newspapers run a little sidebar about your promotion and everything, and you are on this case, and having leads is the majority of your damn job!” Campbell shouted, but the venom had left his voice. “And then you called up the secretary to give a girl power speech, and--”

“Gwen did a better job than I would have, and her theory does make sense, sir!” David protested.

“It doesn’t matter to _them_ if it makes sense!” Campbell roared, grabbing David by the upper arms and giving him a single hard shake. “We work for the public! And the public are stupid, and scared, and bigoted assholes, and we have to play their game or they will crucify us, David! We either prove to them day in and day out that we are the best and only person for the job, or we are replaced!”

He sucked in a breath, and the pause made him stop. He realized what he was doing and sheepishly let go.

David didn’t say anything, rattled.

After a long awkward moment between them, Campbell squeezed his eyes closed solemnly and put a hand - heavy and firm, but this time, gentle - on David’s shoulder.

“I’m going to need you and your partner to run surveillance on my home,” he said slowly. “The Prophet might come back and he - or she,” Campbell reluctantly sighed, “might kill me next.”

David nodded, slowly at first, and then with a firm seriousness. “Yeah,” he agreed, “yeah, we can do that.”

“It will just be the two of you, since you’re on probation and you’re the only officers I can spare. Which means I am trusting you with my life, David. Can you handle that?” He ducked down a few inches to David’s height to look him in the eye. “It’s going to be double shifts, trading off with the car, going home only to sleep while the other person goes back to a hopefully boring street. It’s going to be hard work.”

“I’ll have to ask Gwen,” David told him.

Campbell frowned. “Keep an eye on her, Davey,” Campbell said quietly, with another pat on his shoulder. “Has she been acting strange lately?”

David thought back to the moods, the grouchiness, her insomnia, the amount of coffee she’d been drinking. “I’m sure it’s just stress,” he answered with a cheerful smile.

Cameron straightened back up. “Are you?”

David blinked as the commissioner turned and walked away.

\---

David twiddled his thumbs. He glanced up at the mustard yellow house every so often, when the drapes would shift in the wind or the flag in the front yard would fall as the breeze stilled.

Gwen had left only an hour ago to rest and have a break, and David already felt too bored to function. He watched the sun slip behind another wave of clouds, their shadows racing down the street the way he wished he could. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, studying the house across the road.

It was almost a manor, really, with a second story and a tall, slanted roof, the whitewash on the fence new and the trellis above the gate heavy with some kind of blooming vine. He had a matching garage standing flush with the fence, a back door inside the fence for convenience.

David felt a pang of jealousy, he was pretty sure, before he buried it in shame. The commissioner had been working for over thirty years. He'd been commissioner for six. Of course he wasn't living in a dirty matchbox of an apartment and had room for both a car and a dog. Not that he had a dog, but he sure had room for one.

Something tapped on the passenger side window. David looked over in surprise to see a pair of turquoise eyes and a mop of curly black hair.

“Max?” he grinned. “Hello!” David leaned over and opened the door for him, and Max hopped in the front seat and closed it behind him.

“Look, I happened to be walking past on my way to see Neil, and I saw you alone in a car after the fucking trainwreck yesterday. I'm here to make fun of you for being a dumbass,” Max explained. “We’re still not friends. He crossed his arms and scowled up at David.

“Aw, Max, it's so nice of you to check up on me!” David beamed. “How was your comic book?”

“I... it... fucking... it doesn't matter!” Max sputtered, face darkening. “It's not like you've read it!” He threw his little hands in the air.

“I haven't read comics in a few years,” David agreed, “but I like hearing that you like things!” He reached over to pat Max’s hair fondly, but Max batted his hand away like a cat.

“Would you listen to me?!” Max growled. “It doesn't matter, because that's not why I'm here! Look,” he snapped, pointing an accusing finger at David's chest, I read about the press conference you shitbrained assholes gave, and I was there when Nikki pulled a fucking skull out of a hole in the ground!”

David nodded, looking somber. I know you were, Max. It's such a shame that you had to see something as traumatizing as--”

“Shut the fuck up, oh my god,” Max groaned, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “David, what is the one and only way the Prophet kills people?”

David froze for a second, thinking. “We aren't sure, Max. She seems to be slitting their throats and letting them bleed out onto their-- Oh, sorry,” he squeaked, “I'm sorry, that's really not something you should have to hear!” He clapped his hands over Max’s ears.

“David!” Max shouted, ripping at David's sleeves and pulling his wrists away from his head. “Just spit it the fuck out! I'm not five!”

David, eyes wide, nodded slowly. “Okay she, uh,” he clammed up again, but slid a finger across his throat.

“Did you see the bones?” Max asked, anger dying down quickly.

David shook his head. “They were taken to the morgue. They look at them very close and measure them and do something with the teeth,” he rambled on, deep in thought. “They think it's all the missing pieces of the second victim, so they have to, um. Dig the guy up out of a grave and... um, match the parts,” David tried to say carefully.

“So you didn't see the cracked skull? The huge hole?” Max asked, eyes wide.

David sat up a little straighter. “...No?”

“The skull,” Max explained slowly, “when we found it, there was already a hole in it, here!” He pointed at the side of his head, his hand making the shape of a gun.

“You mean, you're sure? Something like that wasn't from one of you or the dog breaking it?” David gasped.

Max scowled at him. “We didn't break a dead guy, David! The hole is probably from a fucking bullet! And who hasn't used a fucking bullet before, David? The fucking Prophet!” Max shouted.

David touched two fingers to his bottom lip, his eyes wide and scared. “Someone else killed this person?” he repeated in disbelief. “Are you sure the neck wasn't slit? The body was so far gone, the torso had been, um, beheaded, and...”

“He was shot, David!” Max seethed. “Who the fuck cares if the neck was slit or not! His skull was _caved the fuck in!_ ”

David stared out of the windshield for a long moment, trying to figure out what was bothering him, what Jasper would have told him to do. What he was supposed to see from this other than a personal failure and being wrong.

 _Jasper._ That was it.

“The body dressed as Jasper, he... also didn't have his throat slit, at least not... right. The Prophet makes one ultraclean stroke, like, supernaturally clean, all the way across. That body - we can't identify it either!” He realized with a gasp. “They're messed up on purpose, they--oh my gosh, Max. The Prophet is hiding murders from us!”

“No, David,” Max sighed, slapping his hand over his face, “any reasonable investigator would look at this bullshit and realize that someone other than the Prophet killed those guys.” He grumbled, massaging his temples. “Where the fuck is Gwen? This is like talking to a brick fucking wall of stupidity.”

“Wait, wait,” David held up a hand, “are you saying there's more than one Prophet?” He turned fully to Max in his car seat.

Max stared back, teeth bared and eyes narrowed. “No, you fucking idiot, not every crime in the city is part of your fucking Prophet case!” he barked, putting his head down on the dashboard. “How did you even fucking get hired? You must be the worst cop in the history of the world,” he said, words muffled by wood and leather.

“But I am a cop!” David said proudly, reaching over and patting Max on the back. “I had help,” he admitted fondly, thinking of blue eyes and high fives. “Maybe you'll be an even better cop than me someday,” he smiled.

“Fuck that and fuck you,” Max muttered, not lifting his head.

\---

David paced nervously beside his assigned car, fiddling with his hat brim by sliding it back and forth between his thumbs. He stood in front of a tall brick building where a few bricks had fallen out of the crumbling mortar.

“Oh, Gwen!” he gasped in relief as she stepped out of the front door and onto the concrete landing.

She looked up at him, holding a thermos.

“Something came up, I'll tell you in the car!” he shouted.

“Is it an emergency?” she shouted back, feet pounding down the steps.

He tossed the keys at her. “Not sure,” he admitted, ducking into the passenger seat.

The instant she slammed the door closed, David turned to her with his notebook out and his expression earnest.

“I'm telling you first! I'm telling you right away so I can't forget!” he explained. “Max found me in the car today while I was on stakeout, and, you know how he helped find the remains and stuff?”

Gwen nodded, the car engine rumbling but still in park.

“There was a big hole in it right here!” He pointed to the side of his skull. “Max said it looked like a bullet hole, and,” he paused for effect, “the Prophet doesn't use guns!”

“And Campbell definitely does,” Gwen filled in the blank, patting her own police-issue Colt.

David laughed. “No, Campbell had a good point, he does know all the best places to dump a body. I mean, we live on an island in the middle of a huge, murky river. Not to mention he's the police, Gwen! If he really wanted to make someone disappear I'm sure he'd just arrest them.”

Gwen huffed, and pulled the car away from the curb. “Okay, what do you think it means, then?” she asked.

“I said I thought the Prophet was using different murder weapons to confuse the investigation,” David started, “but Max said that was dumb and not every crime in the city was committed by the Prophet and we should consider the possibility that this is a different murderer.”

“He has a point,” Gwen conceded. “Smart kid.”

“But we haven't had any time to look at the body that was dressed as Jasper,” David continued. “That was another unidentifiable victim who didn't have the signature clean cut, uh, across his,” David gulped, looking green, “throat.”

“So you think that body and the piecemeal torso one were killed by the same murderer?” she asked.

“I, um,” David sighed. “I wanted to ask Daniel what he thought.”

Gwen didn't speak for a moment or two, the car sputtering along towards Campbell’s house.

“I just mean,” David broke the silence nervously, “I'm stumped, and he's so clever, I just wanted to, in person, maybe--”

“It's not that,” Gwen cut him off. “You want me to cover your part of the shift tonight?” she asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

David looked down at his lap. “Only if it's okay, since you have the rest of the night after that anyways, and it should really only take an hour or two, tops, and it's just during the part of the night with both of us in the car besides, and nothing has happened near--”

“Yes, David,” she interrupted before he could ramble on, “go ask your boyfriend. Do you need to get dropped off somewhere?”

“Just my apartment, please,” he sheepishly requested. “I have to get out of these clothes.”

“Have you been wearing the same thing every night?” she asked, wheeling the car around smoothly. “People are going to notice.”

“I don't have anything else, Gwen,” David said sadly. “I didn't go yesterday though, maybe people have forgotten.”

She hummed. “Yeah, I hope so.”

\---

“How was it?” Kevin asked, his tone much more interested than his pose would imply.

He leaned back against the alley wall of the Blue Peacock, arms crossed, cigarette hanging from his lips, wearing a different long sleeved red shirt today.

Jen grinned at him lazily. “Honestly,” she drawled, flipping up the collar of her black wool coat against the chill evening breeze, “I'm impressed. You managed to find it so fast, have you been holding out on me?” she chuckled, taking a small box from an inner pocket of her coat. She tapped it against her palm a few times, and then pulled out a cigarette.

“Oh, that's good,” Kevin breathed a sigh of relief. “I figured I might be arriving at my funeral tonight,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck. “It's not like I know much about poisons, and I can't, uh, test them. So I just had to take my supplier’s word for it.”

“I don't kill people, Kevin,” Jen giggled, tucking the box of cigarettes away. “They're dead when I get them. Oh, do you want to see what I needed it for?” she asked happily, popping the cigarette between her sharp white teeth and digging in her pockets.

“Oh god,” Kevin muttered, standing up straight and taking a step back down the alleyway. “How illegal is it?”

Jen giggled again. “Well, certainly not entirely legal,” she admitted, taking a small mason jar out of her coat.

Kevin suspected it had once held a double shot of moonshine, but now, it held a slightly cloudy liquid.

And spiraling in the glass, suspended by its own buoyancy, a single human eye. Blue.

“What the fuck--” Kevin yelped, tripping over his feet as he scrambled backwards.

“Pretty neat, right?” Jen chirped excitedly. “It's two days old and still looks like new!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jen,” Kevin spluttered, his cigarette dropped and forgotten, smouldering cherry red on the concrete. “Put that away before someone sees, what the fuck?!”

“Oh, I'm just testing new preservatives. Don't you know anything about demisurgery? It would be nice to not have to use glass eyes all the time,” she explained, swirling the liquid, and the eye, in the jar.

“And where the fuck--who did you fucking pull that out of?” Kevin hissed, running a hand over his stubble nervously.

“Traffic accident, closed casket, very tragic,” Jen listed flatly, still watching the eye bob in the jar. “If this goes well, I could be working at the university by the end of the year!”

Kevin made several facial expressions in rapid succession - bafflement, confusion, understanding, and then another layer of bafflement. “Wait, you bought illegal drugs and poison for... science?”

“The drugs are for me,” she grinned, “but yes.”

Kevin scrubbed his hand across his whole face. “Okay, that's fair, okay,” he mumbled.

“So what's your price?” she asked, sliding the jar back inside her coat pocket and extracting a lighter. It took two sharp clicks, and she finally lit her cigarette.

Kevin blinked, and moved his hand from his face to his hair. “Oh, uh,” he grunted, “well, I did lose, or the house lost, a valuable casino prize this week, and... the guy hasn't cashed out yet, but I just know he will the minute I think he's lost it, so...” he trailed off, looking red in the face.

“Trying to rebuild?” Jen guessed. “Build up the funds so you can actually pay? How much is the prize worth?” she offered, smoke trickling from the corner of her pink lips.

“Uh,” Kevin groaned, looking down at his shoes, spotting his dropped cigarette.

“Spit it out,” Jen grinned devilishly, the ember of her cigarette glowing in her pale eyes.

“A grand.” Kevin had the decency to look embarrassed, crouching to pick up his smoke.

Jen gave an unladylike snort that turned into laughter. “It sounds like,” she giggled, “what you need is a grand, then.”

Kevin dropped his cigarette all over again. “You'll pay me a thousand dollars for poison?!” he hissed.

Jen shook her head, blond curls bouncing attractively around her face. “For the one little bottle? No.”

“You did say I could name my price,” Kevin pointed out, grabbing the cigarette and jamming it between his teeth with a huff.

“I would buy your partnership,” Jen soothed.

Kevin squinted suspiciously. “And what exactly the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have a lot of science I need to do, techniques to polish, pictures to take and document,” she explained while playing with her hair. “You get me what I need, no questions asked, and in three months I hand you the easiest grand you ever made.” Her eyes flicked over to him suddenly, pinning him like a moth on a board. “Do we have a deal?” she asked, smoke curling up around her face as she held out a manicured hand.

Kevin hesitated, and then took it, feeling distinctly like he'd just handed over his soul.

\---

David slipped into the speakeasy quietly, glancing around for Daniel. Even though it was the middle of the week and the weather had been threatening to rain, the speakeasy was as packed as ever.

It took him a long moment to find Daniel in the shifting throng. He wasn't in his usual spot in the back corner or even loitering with a drink by the bar. David weaved through the casino tables, checking for gloved hands, blond hair, icy eyes.

A couple of gamblers glanced up at him as he passed, some staring, or winking, or giggling. David gave them an awkward wave as he hurried through, trying to keep his head down. Finally he caught sight of Daniel’s hair beside the dancing crowd.

He had one foot up on the edge of the low stage, a drink in his hand, leaning in to speak with the beautiful singer as the band continued an instrumental piece behind her.

David caught his eye with a wave.

Daniel glanced up at the motion, and the smile that spread across Daniel’s face made David’s knees feel strange and weak.

Daniel lifted a finger to his forehead in a little salute and gave David a wink before turning back to the singer. He handed her his nearly full drink and gave her a nod, and she returned the gesture with a quick elbow to his ribs before knocking back the whole glass.

David watched Daniel rub his side in mock hurt and give her a dirty look before turning back to David with another grin. He started towards David, thumbs hooked on the pockets of his pinstriped slacks, the crowd melting out of his way.

David stood, transfixed, as Daniel marched over, graceful and tall.

When he reached David’s side, he laid a firm, gloved hand on David’s arm as he leaned in. “Officer Larsen,” he drawled against David's ear, “I didn't see you in last night. To what do I owe the... pleasure?”

David felt a shiver run all the way up his spine. “O-oh, gosh,” he mumbled, face already burning. “Hello, Daniel! Can we talk in private? I-in the booth?” he squeaked, his voice cracking.

Daniel threw his arm over David’s shoulders. “Of course, my dear friend!” he boomed over the music. “Would you like anything to drink while we talk?”

“No, that's okay! I just... the you-know-what is giving me problems, and--”

“Say no more!” Daniel boomed again, giving a few of the gamblers winks as he escorted David between the tables.

He gave David a friendly pat on the back when they got to their huge, circular booth. Kevin had replaced the tea candles recently; they flickered as David slid into the warm, dark corner, the flames tall and sooty.

“Well?” Daniel asked, sitting down on the outside edge of the seat. He set his elbow on the circular table and leaned his cheek on his hand.

David blinked. Daniel looked like a model in a newspaper ad, waiting to be immortalized as the face of a cigar brand or a cologne scent or a gunsmith. He couldn't remember what he'd wanted to say.

“David, my dear,” Daniel rumbled, reaching forward to flick the tip of David's nose. “You had a problem I could help you with?”

“Yes!” David jumped, clasping a hand over his face. “I'm sorry, it's been a long few days.”

Daniel cocked his head in interest. “Oh yeah? What have you been up to ?”

“Campbell has us on stakeout at his house night and day,” David whined. “I couldn't come because I was drinking too much coffee in the car.”

“And here I thought you'd grown tired of me,” Daniel teased. He put his forearms on the table now, gloved hands clasped neatly in front of him. “So, how can master Goodfellow help you, officer?”

“Never!” David gasped. “I just thought, you're really clever, and you’re working on the Prophet case already,” he started, scratching his head awkwardly.

Daniel nodded.

“You know the second murder?” David asked, his voice even lower.

“Lester,” Daniel said smoothly.

David paused. “No, the torso found in the dumpster, Lester was the Prophet’s third murder.”

Daniel looked shocked for a fraction of a second before smiling coolly again. “My apologies, you're correct of course. Cognac is a weakness of mine,” he laughed. “What about the torso?”

“It's unidentifiable,” David said with a little sigh. “But there was another body we haven't identified.”

“Oh?” Daniel asked, eyebrow raised.

“We haven't released it to the public because we can't explain it,” David said slowly. “But he was killed and put where he would be found.”

“And you believe it's the Prophet’s work?” David smiled.

“...No,” David said. “The Prophet kills with a blade to the throat. Ultraclean, no struggle, blood everywhere. The torso... we found the skull and there were signs of a gunshot. And the other unidentified body, we... I didn't look close enough to find a killing blow, but with the face... peeling off and all the blood, I would have noticed something on the throat,” he explained, a bit shakily.

“So tell me what you think is going on.” Daniel reached out, tapping David under the chin softly, his smile perfect and white and symmetrical.

David blushed. “I think... I think they're like that for a reason,” he muttered. “I think someone wants us to think the Prophet killed those people. Or I think maybe the Prophet wants us to think someone else killed those people.” He put his face in his hands. “I don't know. I'm not smart.”

He felt the seat shift as Daniel scooted closer to him. “Shh,” he soothed. “I think those are good theories, David. They have merit.”

David turned to him in shock. “Really?!” He let his hands fall into his lap.

“Yes, of course. You may not think you're intelligent, but you have good instincts. Here,” Daniel said, offering his hand under the table.

David took it.

They sat like that for a moment, watching the candles flicker. David could feel the leather creaking between his fingers, Daniel’s hand cool and gentle beneath. David swallowed around something warm and strangely comfortable deep in his chest, which made his heart pound under his ribs.

“Why is this booth always empty?” David wondered aloud. He sounded dreamy, staring up at the gently swaying chandelier.

Daniel snickered. “Do you know what the knife game is?”

“No,” David mumbled, “but I assume it's a game with a knife.”

Daniel burst into booming, honest laughter, scaring David awake. “I knew you were intelligent,” he wheezed, wiping a tear away. “Ahh, here, I'll show you.” He let go of David's hand and pressed his right palm flat on the table, long fingers splayed until the leather pulled perfectly taut.

With his left hand, he reached into his vest, grabbing something hidden at his side, beneath his arm. And with a fluid motion, he produced a shining blade with a golden grip, and brought it down hard enough to stick in the wood between his thumb and forefinger.

David jumped again as the blade quivered, point down and standing on its own in the table.

“The object of the game is to stab between your fingers in order as fast as possible. If you cut yourself, you lose.”

“And that's why you wear gloves?” David asked, looking horrified.

“I've never lost,” he said smoothly, wrenching the blade out of the tabletop, tapping it with blinding speed between each of his fingers, and ending by tossing it casually in the air. It flipped once in a graceful flash of reflected candlelight, and Daniel let it fall soundlessly into his right hand, fingers finding the grip.

Just as quickly as he'd pulled it from his side, he returned it to its secret hiding place with a cocky grin.

“Someone managed to lose a finger in this booth, and I'm the only one that uses it anymore,” Daniel explained. “That's why it's always empty.”

David's eyes grew wide. He checked right and left of his spot. “I hope they found it,” he muttered in concern.

Daniel found himself laughing again. “Of course they did, it wasn't... it didn't come all the way off!”

David looked ill with empathy. “Oh my gosh,” he squeaked, cradling his head in his hands.

“Is the little cop a little squeamish?” Daniel teased, holding out his hand again.

David nodded.

“Well, my apologies if I frightened you. I happen to enjoy a bit of risk.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, Daniel's thumb rhythmically stroking the back of David's hand.

“You can rest on my shoulder if you'd like,” Daniel hummed. “You must be tired after a stakeout.”

David had never felt so awake, but he nodded and leaned his head on Daniel’s shoulder anyway.

After a moment, Daniel chuckled and leaned his head too, on top of David’s hair. He squeezed David’s hand, his smug grin melting away into a gentle smile, and then after a moment, to concern.

“You're going to blow your cover,” Daniel said with a frown.

David sat up quickly, knocking their heads together.

“Sorry - ow! - what?” David sputtered, letting go to rub his head.

“You've been here every night except the one recently,” he muttered.

“Is it the clothes?” David jumped in. “I haven't found anything else I can afford, my job--”

Daniel squeezed his hand. “No, David. Plenty of people wear the same clothes in here night after night.” He pointed at a middle-aged man. “Factory worker,” and a young gentleman, “assistant banker,” and a young woman in a gentleman’s suit, “baker a few blocks down, to name a few. They can't afford much more than work clothes either. But this is the one place they can dress up and feel alive, David. You have to live once before you die.” He grinned. “But if you're insecure about your outfit, I could introduce you to a fine tailor someday.”

David shook his head. “I didn't know. But how am I going to blow my cover then.”

“Nobody down here has seen you live, ever since a single hand at blackjack. All eyes are on you, and you're a spry young man who doesn't drink or smoke or gamble.” Daniel let go of David’s hand and began to scoot out of the booth, to David’s disappointment.

“So what should I do?” David asked, looking at his own hand before glancing up at Daniel.

He straightened up, buttoning his suit jacket. “Well,” he turned, holding out his hand to help David out of the seat, “shall we dance?”

David reached out slowly, his eyes darting from Daniel to his offered hand to the dance floor across the smoky room and back again. And then he grabbed Daniel’s wrist, letting the gentleman pull him out his feet.

“I would love to dance with you,” he said, beaming like the sun.

“That's good,” Daniel smiled back, and then realizing he was still holding David’s wrist, let go and clasped his hands against the small of his back. “I believe dancing with you as my partner will be... enjoyable.” He motioned towards the dance floor with a nod of his head, and as David happily headed in that direction, Daniel followed like a pale shadow.

When they reached the dance floor, David turned to take Daniel’s hands at the edge of the energetic crowd. They both grasped for their partner’s waist and opposite hands, the traditional position men took when dancing with women.

When they simultaneously realized what had gone wrong, David pulled his hands away, embarrassed, and Daniel chuckled.

“Here,” Daniel offered, switching hands. “I've learned both parts, I shouldn't have assumed...” he winked.

“Oh, no, I just hadn't thought...” David said bashfully, gently setting his hand on the jut of Daniel’s waist as Daniel casually draped his hand on David's shoulder. They clasped their hands together and leaned close, David fearing Daniel could feel the heat radiating off of his red face.

“Let's start simple,” Daniel suggested, his voice close and intense enough to carry over the music. “Do you know how to foxtrot?”

David sucked in a breath. “Um, yes,” he tried not to shout.

“Then lead on, Master Larsen.”

David felt another hot shiver tingle up his spine, and he swallowed.

But he remembered the simple, bouncy steps of a foxtrot, leading Daniel as he carefully weaved between other laughing couples. The dance was more of a synchronized gallop than anything, and David got to hear Daniel laugh again.

“How do you swing?” Daniel leaned close and purred an inch from David's ear, making him pause.

“Oh, I, uh,” David stammered, his voice shooting up an octave. “I'll follow your lead.”

Daniel looked pleasantly surprised as he rocked back and let go of David's shoulder, talking both of his hands and pulling David into a dance he'd never learned.

“Spin right,” Daniel said, and David spun right into his arms. “And back out,” Daniel called next, unwinding him until they only clasped hands with their arms outstretched. “Back to me!” Daniel ordered, folding him in back to their starting position, chest to chest, both pairs of hands clasped. “And dip!”

David squeaked as he was tossed easily to the side, only one foot on the floor and laying back on Daniel's arm. Daniel had lunged to hold him to the side, a cocky grin on his face.

Daniel had to tip him back onto his feet, as his legs had gone to jelly.

Daniel couldn't just be poised and handsome and well-dressed and intelligent. He had to be strong enough to bodily toss him around and graceful to boot.

David felt ill with the cocktail of emotions trying to burst from every inch of his body, his heart leaping into his throat as his stomach lurched and his skin burned where Daniel had touched it. He couldn't get enough air. He shivered, even as tingling fire rolled down his body in a wave.

He had to get away before he passed out.

“I should get going!” David blurted out, frozen on the spot. “Gotta get back to the car!” He continued, staring at Daniel's beautifully polished shoes.

Daniel’s face fell for a split second, but he recovered. “Of course!” he smiled, “you still have important work to do.” He hooked a thumb into his belt.

“Yeah” David agreed drunkenly, his heart thundering in his ears.

Daniel caught his hand one more time. “Before you go,” he tugged on David’s arm, pressing his face close to David's ear. “It's not the crime scenes you should be focused on.” His voice had gone deathly serious. “Check the Blue Peacock. You'll know.”

He took a step backwards before David had processed his words, and with a cocky little salute, he melted into the crowd.

David stood dumbfounded for a beat, jostled by the crowd.

Gwen. He needed to tell Gwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I appreciate your feedback more than you know! I have an itryd tag on my tumblr (pyreclaws) which I will sometimes reblog 1920s fun facts, aesthetic, and give fic updates if you're into that! See you in a couple weeks with the penultimate chapter of act 1!


	5. All the bad luck in this town has found me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfy gets promoted. Nikki flips the bird. Gwen melts. David puts his finger into an important hole. Kevin touches the B.
> 
> The author cuts down on ellipses...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title this time is from When I Get Low, I Get High which was originally by Ella Fitzgerald and recently covered with a bit more modern audio quality by The Speakeasy Three!
> 
> First and foremost, a note:  
> -"Gay" in its modern usage didn't really exist yet. "Queer" was the polite term used especially within the community to refer to other people who didn't fit into the strict, conservative roles of romance or gender binary (and still usually is). I'm just putting this here so nobody thinks Gwen is being somehow insulting.

“It's been five whole days,” David whined. “I know we're doing something important, but the curiosity is killing me! What did he mean?”

Gwen sat up slowly, the dark circles under her eyes deep and purple like bruises. “It means your boyfriend isn't telling you something,” she grumbled. “Or he's being a dramatic queer, honestly.”

“Maybe it's because he's trying to help me feel smarter,” David wondered aloud, laying back in his seat and gazing out the window at the setting sun. “He said my stupid ideas had merit, and then... he goes and gives me a tip like that?”

“Go investigate without me then, one of us has to stay in the car,” Gwen yawned. “Besides, I'm gonna be a little late tomorrow. Gotta see if I can get something to help me fall asleep.”

“Yeah, you look in a bad way,” David muttered.

“Thanks,” Gwen grunted sarcastically.

“No, no,” David stammered, “I mean,” he held out his hands in front of his chest, “you look fine?”

“That's not better,” Gwen mumbled again.

“You look really tired.”

“Astute,” Gwen said flatly.

David dropped his arms to his sides. “Sorry. And I don't want to go to a crime scene alone, the Prophet has gotten away with a kill there, maybe, and I'm... not going to pretend like I'm not an easy target.”

“That's probably for the best,” Gwen agreed. “You're getting smarter. I guess this Daniel guy really is good for you.”

David stared out the window again, smiling dreamily. “You really should meet him, Gwen! He's just, I can't describe him, he's self-assured and, and, he dipped me--”

“Dipped you while you were dancing, yeah,” Gwen easily recited. “You're a twig though, couldn't be that hard.”

“I'm just very impressed,” David muttered, sounding crushed.

Gwen laid her head back on the headrest. “Wake me up if anything interesting happens,” she grumbled, closing her eyes.

“Is a missing dog an interesting happening?” David asked, squinting down the road a little ways.

Gwen shifted. “What?”

“That girl is walking a dog from an old case I was assigned to with Jasper,” he blinked. “I, uh, wait here.”

David jumped out of the car, almost imposing in his wool coat that masked his slender frame and his black police cap.

“David!” Gwen shouted after him, jumping up and stumbling over the curb as she leaped out of the car. “Clearly the dog isn't missing anymore!”

“He's missing from the other side of the city!” David hissed back, continuing to powerwalk towards the girl and the dog.

Gwen rolled her eyes and jogged to catch up to him. “So you're going to steal a dog from a child?”

“She stole the dog, not me,” David whined. “I'm just going to ask where she got him, and--”

Gwen grabbed his shoulder. “You really think she stole a dog? Look at her,” Gwen pointed. She was still a little ways down the road. “She's like ten. Probably not a master criminal.”

“Okay, but it's a missing dog, it's not hers,” David argued. “I'm just doing my job, Gwen. There could be another kid missing their dog right now.”

She pulled her hand away with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess you're right, but I still don't like it.”

“I'll just talk to her,” he reassured with a smile.

Gwen huffed again, crossing her arms, but followed.

David threw his hand up in a big, friendly wave. “Hello!” he shouted down the sidewalk.

The dog - a huge grey wolf beast, just like the black and white photo on the “missing dog” poster Campbell had once slammed on Jasper’s desk - began barking a deep, booming bark.

David's smile faltered for a second. “Big dog,” he muttered to himself, his voice high-pitched, “that's a really big dog, a huge dog, let's not get mauled by this very large dog, okay, okay...”

“If you get mauled I'm leaving you on the sidewalk,” Gwen muttered darkly.

The girl walking the dog, who had been squinting with a hand shielding her eyes from the sun, waved back. “Hi David! Hi girl David!” she shouted, breaking into a run.

Gwen elbowed David in the ribs with a glare, but didn't say anything.

“Owie,” David squeaked, and looked up to the sound of massive dog paws thundering down the sidewalk.

There was a sound of dog hitting cop and cop hitting concrete, followed by David laughing and the girl shouting.

“Wolfy! Wolfy! Don't eat Max’s cop friend!” she scolded, running as fast as she could.

“Gwen - oh gosh hahaha! - it tickles - haha! stop, stop! - get him off me!” David begged between waves of giggles.

Gwen watched him, arms still crossed. “I told you I'm leaving you on the sidewalk,” she reminded him, but a smile started creeping over her face.

“Wolfy!” the girl called one more time, and then mimicked his bark in a much higher register. Like a switch had been flipped, he stood tall, ears up, and then trotted obediently back to her.

Gwen looked mildly impressed; David looked like he'd been in a hurricane. He scrubbed at his face and his hair with his coat sleeves, ineffectively.

He stood and brushed himself off, his hair now plastered up in a mess of spikes and dog drool, and retrieved his hat. “So, you must be Max’s friend!” David said smoothly, as if he hadn't just been begging for help. He crouched down, trying to be friendly. “What’s your name?”

“I'm Nikki!” she said proudly, grinning and revealing a missing front tooth. “And you're David!” She announced, now puffing out her chest. “Max says you're dumb but you pay him sometimes so you must be a good person!”

David beamed. “He said that?” He turned to Gwen, happy tears immediately welling up in his eyes. “Did you hear that?!”

“And you're the girl David,” Nikki repeated, ignoring his outburst. “I know because you're the only girl cop in the city! Maybe in the whole world!” She took a couple of steps towards Gwen, eyes wide in awe. “My mom reads about everything you do and she thinks you're the bee’s knees! That's what she said!”

Gwen opened her mouth to protest and closed it quickly, looking sheepish but happy.

“Her name is Gwen,” David corrected her, brushing a sticky strand of hair off of his forehead, smiling proudly.

“That's good name!” Nikki chirped. “Much better than ‘girl David’.”

David laughed. “I think so too!”

“Your mother sounds like a smart lady,” Gwen finally replied, hiding a soft blush behind her upturned collar.

“She’s not,” Nikki said in all seriousness.

Gwen couldn't figure out how to respond to that, so she didn't.

“So, how can I help you, officers? Do you need to borrow Wolfy to help sniff out some more clues?”

Wolfy yipped, his tail wagging with the force of a fluffy bullwhip.

David looked at Gwen.

Gwen looked at David.

David raised an eyebrow and nodded once, almost imperceptibly, in Nikki’s direction.

Gwen moved her head a millimeter to the left, then the right.

David raised both eyebrows as far as they would go and pursed his lips, which, if Gwen hadn't been so mad about what he was implying, would have made her laugh.

Gwen just turned away, shoulders drooping.

“Yes, Nikki, that's actually exactly why we're here!” David lied. “We heard about how good he is at smelling clues, we were hoping we could borrow him for important, um, police work!”

“Did you hear that, Wolfy?” Nikki gasped, scruffing him behind the ears. “They heard about the bones you found over there and they want to give you a job!”

Wolfy barked, excited because she was excited.

Gwen nudged David, and mouthed, “that’s the dog?!”

David, eyes wide, mouthed back, “I guess that's the dog!”

And once more, Gwen mouthed at David, “you're going to make her give him up? He's a hero!”

David quickly checked to see that Nikki was still distracted, excitedly rubbing Wolfy’s face and listing off all the things he'd have to do now that he had a job, including “press his shirts.” He mouthed back to Gwen, “I don't have a choice.”

“--and then you'll get a salary and a 401k and I don't even know what those are!” she babbled, “and a nice wife and kids and a big dog house with a white picket fence! Because you're such a smart boy!” she kept shouting, as Wolfy hopped and panted excitedly. “Mom’s gonna be so mad because she'll have so many mouths to feed but she's not really mad because you make me so happy! You're such a good boy!”

Wolfy yipped again and ran in a tight circle, chasing his tail.

David could feel the holes Gwen was glaring into the back of his head.

“You're gonna catch the bad guy, aren't you Wolfy? Because you're so good?” Nikki grabbed the sides of his face and he jumped, licking her cheek and making her shriek with happiness again. Wolfy gave her a huge doggie smile.

Gwen nudged David’s arm again, harder this time, and sure enough, fixed him with a dirty look.

“Officer Maddox,” David addressed her nicely, “would you please speak with me privately for a moment?”

Gwen uncrossed her arms with an exasperated wave in the air, and walked about three feet down the sidewalk.

David stood and turned to Nikki. “We’ll be right back,” he smiled.

“Okay!” Nikki said, still cheering for Wolfy as he shot around her in a series of tight circles, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth.

“Gwen,” David hissed, approaching her, “this is hard for me too, but there's probably another kid who raised this dog from a puppy who needs him and misses him, and now Nikki is going to think he's off being a hero cop dog.”

“I know,” Gwen bit out, “but that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“It's... unfinished business, Gwen.” David tried to give her a somber look.

“It's stupid and a lie,” Gwen grumped one more time before sighing. “You're right, this is the best way, but it's still...” she lowered her voice even more, “fucking tragic.”

“I know,” David mumbled, “but I have to do my job, Gwen.”

He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled loudly.

Gwen closed her eyes in defeat. “We have to do _our_ jobs.”

David nodded sadly, looking at the ground.

After a moment of solemn silence, he spoke. “Could I have the house key?”

“What for?” Gwen asked, but pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him.

David gave her a weird look. “Using Campbell’s bathroom again? I'll be right back.”

“You're making me babysit _and_ dogsit?”

“For like five minutes, geez,” David chuckled. “Just, I don't know, ask her about the dog,” he suggested, walking backwards a few steps before spinning and darting across the road into Campbell's yard.

Gwen took a moment to close her eyes and mentally prepare herself before turning back to Nikki with a gentle smile. “Sorry about that,” she addressed the young girl, “he's just using the restroom and then we can take Wolfy to his new job!”

Nikki beamed. “I can't wait to grow up and catch bad guys like you and Wolfy!” she said. “When boys laugh at me for being a girl I'll tell them I'm going to be just like you and kick all their butts for being mean bad guys!”

Gwen’s smile went shaky, but with barely contained pride. “Yeah,” she gasped, voice wobbly, I can't wait to see you kick some butts with me, just, stay in school and be good, because it's hard to be a cop with a record.”

“You bet!” Nikki saluted. “Wolfy and you and me can be a cop team together!”

“There's a good goal,” Gwen laughed tiredly, but genuinely. “So, what kind of dog is Wolfy?”

“He's a big scary wolf!” Nikki assured her, jumping at her with her hands up like a predator lunging for her prey. “That's why his name is Wolfy!”

“Uh, good name,” Gwen complimented her with a grin.

“You should meet Timothy!”

“You have another dog at home?” Gwen asked, crouching down like David had.

Nikki shook her head. “No, she's a pigeon.”

“Oh?” Gwen raised an eyebrow.

“She's really smart! Watch!” Nikki took a step back from Gwen and stuck her pinkies into her mouth. She sucked in a deep breath.

And have an ear-shattering whistle.

She stuck out her arm and waited.

Something whistled back. Little pigeon wings, whipping through the air.

Timothy, Gwen assumed, tumbled almost artistically through the air, alighting on Nikki’s outstretched hand.

Gwen applauded, honestly impressed. “You're ten and already training animals like that?”

“They like me,” Nikki answered simply. She lifted a finger and crooked it, and Timothy lowered her head to let Nikki scratch the feathers on the back of her neck.

Wolfy headbutted gently against her side, and with a laugh, she reached down and pet him too.

“You're a good kid, Nikki,” Gwen smiled, hiding her conflicting emotions well.

\---

David closed the thick oak door behind him and tapped his toes on Campbell's front rug to shake any dirt loose. The little anteroom opened into a wide living space filled with knickknacks from around the world, decorated with trophies. A tiger skin rug lay spread on the oak floor, a stuffed flamingo perched in the corner beside an end table that held a tacky lamp and a yellowing globe stuck like a pincushion with multicolored tacks. A moose head, the antlers occupied by drying laundry, hung on a plaque above a stone fireplace which thankfully stood cold. The ottoman looked to be upholstered in crocodile leather, the armchair held a zebra skin throw. An albatross, with hooked screws in its preserved joints, hung from the ceiling like a macabre chandelier.

David glanced at the bookshelf curiously as he passed, the huge atlases and history tomes interspersed with crime fiction and legal books. A lacquered walleye large enough to swallow David to the waist was displayed on top, glaring eternally down with an orange glass eye. A bible sat at eye level, propped up on what looked like a decorative oil lamp from Arabia, and several crystals, geodes, precious stones, pendants, and amulets from every corner of the world clogged the space on the shelves in front of the books.

On the glass coffee table, a radio, and water rings from drink bottles.

David glanced down the first hallway - surprised, again, by the twin stuffed bears flanking either side of Campbell's bedroom door.

He'd put straw boater hats on both of them for some reason, and one of them had a cane hanging off his massive paw.

David then turned down the second hallway off of the main room. He knew the bathroom was the first door on the right; both he and Gwen had been using it during their defensive stakeout. But out of curiosity, or hero worship, or to avoid the tense situation he'd have to face outside, or even just plain nosiness, David passed the bathroom and the linen closet and poked his head into Campbell’s office.

A comfortably red chair sat behind a heavy desk. Oak, David guessed. Behind the desk, filing cabinets, a gun safe, and a wall safe.

And all across his desk like he'd left them in a hurry, papers.

David took a closer look.

Columns of months beside dollar amounts. Bank accounts. Payroll, David realized. He moved about a dozen papers before finding one with his own name on it. The numbers looked right, and jumped up at the end from his small raise. He set it aside. A little more digging, and he found Gwen’s records. He frowned when he saw her pay from months back, before she'd become his partner, but frowned even harder when he realized just how much she was getting paid even with a raise and a new position.

With a grumble, he set the paper down and shifted through a few more pages.

And stopped.

David sorted through the papers again, and a third time.

Jasper's payroll records weren't here, which hurt more than David expected it would.

But another name was missing from the files.

Daniel Goodfellow.

\---

Penelope Priss could safely say she hated her job more than anyone else in the city.

After scrubbing off up to her elbows and opening the same damn drawer she'd been into and out of for for a week, she pulled open a toolbox and took out a pair of pliers.

Before her, looking worse for wear due to repeated freezing and thawing, lay the faceless body of someone she was pretty sure was _not_ Jasper McFadden.

Pulling gloves on her hands and a mask over her nose and mouth, she began opening the disgusting mouth of the long-dead man. She had removed the false face four days ago, and was now dealing with bare muscles, frozen and locked in rigor. She managed, after several long minutes of staring into droopy, clouded eyeballs and wedging the pliers between the exposed teeth, to stretch the stiff muscles open without breaking the whole jaw.

She thought she'd seen a filling when she'd unfastened the cheeks and lips. If she could get a dental record, there was a chance she could identify this body.

And when she'd pulled the teeth apart enough to see between them and pulled her desk light over, she could indeed see a gold filling in one of his back molars.

It took a bit of creative hand placement, but Penelope jammed the pliers and enough of her hand into the dead man’s mouth to grasp the tooth.

This part was delicate. She couldn't squeeze too hard - a tooth that hadn't had living blood flow in several days and already had a hollow drilled into it would be brittle at best - and if she pulled it too quickly, it could damage what was left of the face, or worse, her hand. She knew the motion had to be quick and powerful and precise, but very careful. She took a deep breath, and lined up her hand, and exhaled, and braced her other hand on the man’s skull, and--

“Penny!” a voice boomed. The door slammed open.

Penelope jumped, yanking the tooth from the gums.

“Fuck!” she swore, looking at what would soon be an awkward bruise to explain. But she held up the pliers and glared at the little pearly molar, and then past it at the man in her morgue.

“Have you figured out this damn body yet?” Cameron Campbell boomed again. His voice, like the rest of him, was too large for the small space.

“Cam,” Penelope answered tiredly, voice like a creaking door hinge. “I pray nightly that you will learn to pick up a damn phone.” She motioned with pliers and tooth at the black contraption on her desk about three feet away. “It would save us both a lot of time,” she said, and then under her breath, she muttered, “and me a lot of aggravation.”

“What have you got there?” Campbell asked loudly, “practicing some amateur dentistry?” He laughed at his own joke, leaning over to slap his knee.

Penelope waited, arms crossed, lips pulled into a thin line. When his laughter died down, she spoke.

“I am about to use this handy telephone to call around and see if I can find some sort of record for a man who had this tooth filled, and if by some miracle that works, I'm going to tell you who this dead man wearing your missing young officer’s face is, Cam.”

Campbell went silent. Penelope enjoyed the moment.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, and then jumped with a whoop. “Penny!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, “I could almost kiss you!” He paused. “...Almost!”

“Don't.” She batted his hands away with a slightly bloody rubber glove.

“What else have you found?” Campbell asked, eyes lit up like a young boy’s on Christmas morning.

Penelope sighed and rolled her eyes. “If you ever picked up your damn phone you would already have my preliminary report.”

“I answer one call and then everybody thinks they can call me! Just tell me when I'm around!” Campbell protested.

“Will you leave after I tell you the gory details?” Penelope practically begged. She took two steps closer to her desk.

Campbell laughed again. “It depends on what you've found! Make it good, Penny, your job depends on it!”

“You threaten to fire me at least twice a week, Cam,” she smirked, “you're slacking.” She pulled out her chair and fell sideways into it with a sigh. “Okay, details, details,” she muttered, moving several papers on her desk.

Campbell crossed his arms impatiently.

“So I took the face off,” Penelope started, now flipping through a notepad. “It was made mostly of common cotton balls stuffed under the rest like soft tissue, talc powder to reduce tacking, some glues and paints, and, get this, makeup.”

Campbell made a “hmm” noise, and motioned for Penelope to continue.

“The detail is incredible. Expertly applied blush, dyed brush hairs for eyebrows, stippling to give the appearance of pores. The entire scalp is a wig sewed into the flesh. The resemblance is beyond uncanny. It's nearly an exact replica, actually.” She looked impressed.

“Who could do something like this?” Campbell asked, his face a little pale. “Could they do that with anyone?”

“Are you asking for a fact or an opinion?” Penelope tapped her foot.

“Yeah.” Campbell tried, and failed, to sound authoritarian.

“Well I don't know for certain - I can't know for certain just yet - but, in my professional opinion?” Penelope paused, giving Campbell a flat look. “Did this guy, this McFadden guy, have a girlfriend? One in the medical field? A nurse maybe, displaced by the men who came back from the Great War?”

Campbell stood blankly for a second. “He was tight-lipped about his personal life, why?”

“The makeup is practiced, accurate, well-informed. The switched bodies, that's a faked death. Someone wanted the world to think officer McFadden was dead, without him having to die.”

“And how did this guy die?” Campbell pointed at the table.

“Stabbed in the back,” Penelope answered. “Four times.” She took out a little diagram she had drawn of the injuries on the body.

He'd been stabbed shallowly in the meat between neck and shoulder; sideways, between the ribs; and twice, in the left kidney. She'd marked the flayed face, which stretched down over his chin, as far to each side as the man’s ears, and all the way down the back of his scalp.

And curiously, she showed a small puncture - barely a scratch, really - on the right side of the throat, and something shaded in on his ankles.

“What’s that?” Campbell tapped the feet on the diagram.

Penelope took a pen and wheeled her chair over to the drawer. She lifted the sheet with the capped end to show Campbell the man’s lower legs.

“I can't make heads or fucking tails of it,” she grumbled.

A ring of bruising wrapped around each ankle, just above the joint, curving downward to a gap on the inside of each leg.

“It looks like he was bound before he was killed,” Campbell guessed. “But why just on the legs?”

Penelope shook her head. “Binding wouldn't make this shape,” she explained, motioning to the strange gap.

“But it's from some kind of restraint, it has to be,” Campbell continued. “It looks like a strangling bruise or something.”

“There's no rope burn or signs of a struggle though.” Penelope ran the pen over the mark. “He may have been already dead, but who binds a dead body? It's not going anywhere at that point.”

“An unconscious body?” Campbell offered.

“Unconscious,” Penelope muttered, “and never became conscious. A dying man? But why bind him if he's already unconscious and dying? The killer maybe... didn't know their victim was dying? Then why not the wrists?” Penelope, using the pen again, folded the sheet down over the broad but plain chest, the soft stomach, and far enough down to show the wrists. They were, as Penelope had indicated, entirely unmarred.

“Well I don't fucking know then, Penny! You tell me!” Campbell snipped. “I don't have time for this wishy-washy business, who am I arresting or interrogating?”

“I'd start, like I said, by questioning any women in McFadden’s life,” Penelope snapped back, unimpressed. “When I find any clues about who this actually is, I will _call_ you.” She poked the pen towards him to punctuate each word. “Whoever made this face knew your man. She knew what his face looked like in perfect detail.” She wheeled her chair back over to her desk and clicked her tongue a few times. She pulled a drawer open and walked her fingers over the folders within in time with each click. After a moment she pulled out a specific file and tossed it, open, on her desk.

Two large black and white photos slid out on top of the many papers. Campbell recognized the mugshot. Jasper, the day he was hired. Standard for every officer on the force, straightforward and expressionless shots from front and profile.

The second set of photos Penelope fanned out were from the day the body had first been brought in. Four of them: front, both sides, and back.

Other than the blood and the slight pucker were Gwen had loosed the false face, they could have been duplicates.

Campbell stood dumbfounded.

Penelope reveled in it, suddenly reminded of how much she loved her job.

\---

“If he's not on the payroll...” Gwen mumbled, trailing off in the back seat.

“Then he's doing it for free,” David said dreamily. “He's doing it for the good of the city, that's so heroic and noble!”

“David,” Gwen sighed, “no, he's just lying. I knew something was off about that guy.”

“You're just saying that because you haven't met him,” David insisted, urging the police car around a corner. “I just found out I’m romantically... I'm attracted... he's...” David tried to explain, his voice holding a hint of fear.

“That you're in love with a man.” It wasn't a question.

“I'm... getting used to it,” David hesitated. “Let me talk to him before you scare me.”

Wolfy, who was sitting beside Gwen in the back seat, filled the pause in conversation with a whine.

“Just, be wary, okay?” Gwen warned him. “I don't know if asking him about it would be a good idea.”

Wolfy’s tail thumped on the floorboards in apparent agreement. Gwen scratched him behind the ears, her expression tense.

David turned the car again. “It's just down this road.”

“I still feel bad for Nikki,” Gwen grumbled.

A moment later, David put it into park and took the keys from the ignition. After opening the glove compartment, he took out a few papers and tucked them under his arm. He checked the address one more time, looking up through the passenger window.

The house seemed normal enough. Perhaps on the small side compared with the neighborhood David had been sitting in for the last week. It had a cramped backyard surrounded by a tall fence.

Gwen tugged on Wolfy’s collar to coax him out of the car. He stepped out, nails clicking on the asphalt, dainty for such a massive animal. He sniffed at the road, Gwen’s shoes, the air.

And froze.

His ears perked up, nose still twitching. He gave a soft whine.

“Come on, boy,” David called, patting his leg, “you're home!”

The dog whined again, his ears back. He approached David cautiously and let him take his collar.

“If this kid got a dog to replace Wolfy, we can take him back, right?” Gwen asked, but her tone was mostly sarcastic and devoid of any real hope.

“I don't think that's how it works,” David grimaced.

Wolfy whimpered a little louder as they approached the door, tail no longer wagging.

“I think he's sad because he knows he's not going back to Nikki,” David explained quietly. “He's not fighting me.”

“I don't know about this--” Gwen muttered.

She was cut off as David knocked, good and hard.

Gwen glanced over at one of the windows. A pane had been shattered, and someone had fixed it by nailing a board up behind it.

More concerningly, the drapes looked like they may have been slashed.

Wolfy whined, louder still, as footsteps approached the door.

Gwen shifted, and something crunched under her foot. Broken glass...? From the window? No, it was green.

The door swung open. David opened his mouth to say an official greeting, but paused and shifted his attention down a few feet.

A boy - no older than fourteen, if he had to guess - had opened the door alone, and glared up at the two cops standing there with a huge dog. He had brown hair, a bit longer and he easier than what was in style, hanging lank over one eye. He was stocky for his height, sucking on a bit of hard candy as he held a pocket knife and a sharp stick he'd been whittling.

“Five months, sixteen days,” he said ominously before David had a chance to introduce himself.

In fact, David had frozen with his hand up and his mouth wide open.

Gwen swallowed audibly and glanced over at David.

“That's how long it took you to find Romulus,” he continued, and flicked the blade closed. He fixed David with an unimpressed stare.

David stifled a gasp by slamming his mouth shut.

The kid’s hair had fallen away from his face, showing a recently healed empty eye socket. It was filled with pale, root scar tissue, still pink around the edges.

Gwen leaned towards David and - behind the dog - stepped down, hard, on his foot.

“You must be...” she started, covering David’s hiss of pain.

Thankfully, in a stroke of brilliance, he took the hint. “Billy Nikssilp?” David finished, trying to ignore the way his eye began watering.

Billy recoiled, his lip curling up. “Nobody calls me that. It's Snake.”

“O-oh, okay,” David squeaked, “Snake. Is this your dog?”

“Romulus’s mother was a wolf,” Billy, or Snake, grit out. “Yes, he is my wolfdog.”

“Sounds great,” Gwen stepped in, arms crossed. “We need an adult to sign some papers, your parents around?”

“My father was in the Great War,” Snake didn't answer. “You have no ideas what horrors he's seen. War is hell, officers.”

Gwen sighed. “So, is he home then?” She took a step forward, trying to peer in through the doorway.

“He's asleep. War did something to him.” Snake moved the candy to the other side of his mouth. “Sleeps through the day, most days.”

“And your mother?” Gwen prompted impatiently.

Snake motioned behind them with the little spear he'd made. “Errands.”

“Oh, in that case,” David smiled, pulling out one of the papers tucked under his arm, “I just need you to sign on the bottom line so we can file this case as closed!”

Snake leaned the stick against the doorway and took the paper with a frown, and then the pen David held out.

“Wait,” Gwen grunted, “if you sign that, you're saying this is not only your dog and that we dropped him off, but also that you still have the means to care for him.”

Snake looked her up and down, skeptical, and scribbled in his name. “Yeah,” he drawled, “here.”

David looked down at Wolfy, or... Romulus, he guessed.

The dog hadn't moved a muscle since Snake had opened the door, tail tucked between his legs, but not shaking or barking. David was no dog expert, but he figured Wolfy seemed guilty.

David took the paper and looked it over. “You're set!” he grinned.

“You take care of this dog, kid,” Gwen warned him, glaring down into his single eye.

“I always do,” Snake said dramatically, but perhaps inaccurately. He grabbed Romulus’s collar. “Come on, boy. No more running off.”

The dog let out a sad whistle and dig in his feet, just as Snake pulled him inside the door and slammed it closed.

Gwen gave David a dirty look.

His smile went stiff and awkward. “This is probably fine,” he said quickly, turning away from the house. “That kid needed a dog more than anybody I've ever seen.”

Gwen kept quiet until they returned to the car and got in, closing the doors.

“That felt bad, David,” she scolded him.

“Yeah,” David agreed, “but we have to do our jobs, Gwen. He didn't do anything wrong, his home life just sounds rough. Maybe having his dog back will be good for him.”

“I'm going to keep an eye on him, David. I don't think... I don't think the dog needs the kid.”

David exhaled through his teeth, his badge heavy against his chest.

\---

Kevin unlocked the cellar doors a few minutes early. He let in his bartender and band members, all dressed to the nines and coming down one or two at a time to avoid raising suspicion.

He left the door open once the last saxophone player had ducked inside. It didn't matter; even the earliest customers liked to arrive fashionably late.

He took the broom from behind the propped open closet door and set about sweeping up the last bit of dirt from yesterday.

The drummer tapped experimentally on each drum, pausing to gently tighten one skin, loosen another. Kevin didn't understand why a snare drum needed tuning, and the clicking and tapping faded into background noise.

Which is probably why he saw the figure slipping out the back door before he heard him.

“Hey!” Kevin shouted after him as the metal door crashed shut, making several of the band members tuck their instruments under their arms, ready to flee.

Kevin dropped the broom and ran after him - her? - tearing into the closet-like room at full speed. His shoes thundered up the wooden stairs, his pupils contracted to tiny pinpricks as he realized what this could mean.

If the figure wanted him shut down by the cops, there was nothing his rookie ally, David, could do to stop the senior members of the force. To David, he was a lead, and maybe even a friend, but to Campbell or his power-hungry goons? He was little more than a snack, a stepping stone to a promotion, or an example for the public.

Kevin didn't see the paper rectangle on the stair until he'd slipped on it.

His foot came out from underneath him. He fell forward onto the stairs with a clatter, the bottom of his chin catching the edge of the top step. He narrowly avoided biting his tongue, teeth clacking together painfully.

“Fuck!” he shouted, and immediately regretted it as pain throbbed through his whole skull.

Now rattled, he flopped over and pulled himself up to a seated position on the middle stair, rubbing his chin.

The paper thing he'd slipped on had fallen to the floor. It was a simple white envelope like any other, face-down and sealed. Kevin leaned over and grabbed it, turning it over in confusion.

On the front, under a dusty footprint, five handwritten letters in generic, block font.

D A V I D.

Kevin blinked, frozen mid chin-rub. Who was that figure? All he could remember was a long coat that obscured every part of the person, and on top, a hat tipped down over their face. He'd seen the figure run up the stairs and out the cellar door after he'd shouted, and nothing else.

Curiously, he stood and lifted the door to peek out into the dark alley. It was empty. Still.

He took a steadying breath and stepped back into the speakeasy.

“We’re good! Just some weirdo!” he called into the seemingly empty basement. “He got spooked when I shouted and he ran off, probably someone with sticky fingers looking for a back way in!”

The trumpet player eased his way out of the bathroom, clutching his instrument like a club. The bartender, with a big bottle under each arm, crawled out from under a casino table. One by one the band poked out around corners and and under booths, the drummer opening the door to the stairs and motioning for the last two band members that it was safe.

“Go back to what you were doing,” Kevin reassured them, “he only saw me and a closet. We've got ten minutes until opening!”

Slowly, they went back to warming up, but the atmosphere was different now. Tense, worried.

Kevin turned the envelope over in his hands a few more times, feeling something thin and stiff and familiar, sliding back and forth in the paper. Curiosity piqued, he brought it over to the first booth and laid it out, face down, on the table.

He tore it open with a finger and dumped out an item he knew well.

A single faded playing card.

The ace of clubs.

One of the suit stolen by a missing man, now back in Kevin’s possession. An apology?

He turned the card over.

On the back, in thick black ink, a single letter.

B.

Not an apology then. A clue.

He had to get it to David.

\---

Gwen checked her watch. It was nothing special, a hand me down from her late grandmother.

She still had at least an hour before she had to take over for David, and she'd given him fair warning she might be late.

The door to the little Jewish pharmacy stood open before her, letting in the warm breeze. Summer was only a few short weeks away, and today was a reminder of that.

Gwen peered into the shop, the walls and aisles lined with bottles in every color. They had to have something that could help.

“Hello?” she called into the empty shop, her shoes clicking on tile.

She heard glass being set down very quickly on wood, and some small metal thing hitting the floor with a chime. A small voice cursed harshly behind the counter and prescription racks - in Yiddish, it sounded like - and seconds later Neil’s worried face and curly hair popped up over the counter.

“Oh!” he said in surprise, “hello officer! What can I help you with today? Remember, I can blend over fifty-seven different--”

“I'm here on personal time, Neil, relax,” she cut him off with a raised hand.

She glanced over and noticed the small waiting room was empty today.

“Where's your dad?” she asked, and when Neil narrowed his eyes she clarified, “no, it's just, you're doing great but you're, what, ten?”

“I am turning thirteen in three months, thank you,” Neil sniffed, “a perfectly acceptable time to learn the family business. And he's buying coffee. For both of us.”

“Oh, alright,” Gwen muttered. “Well, I want something made up.”

“Symptoms?” Neil asked matter-of-factly. He pulled a clipboard and a pen from under the counter.

Gwen blinked. “Um. I get nervous and can't sleep and then I'm tired all the time and I can't think and when I pass out from being too tired to be nervous I wake up after a few hours and can't stay asleep,” she listed off. “I'm always mad and groggy on the job and coffee isn't helping.”

Neil paused. “Have you gotten a prescription or anything?”

“No?” Gwen grimaced, “should I have? It's just this case I'm on.”

“You've never been nervous and can't sleep other than on this case?” Neil asked flatly, knowing what the answer would be.

Gwen thought back to school assignments, dates, her promotion, and then to the nights her brain wouldn't turn off and there wasn't a reason for it. She pulled a face.

“Okay, fine, what's your point?”

“I can't just give you the medication you need, because that would be illegal, officer,” he raised an eyebrow. “We have some herbal tea you can try, mint oils and dried lavender sachets. But that's for people who just need a little help. You need a lot.”

“Dammit,” Gwen swore under her breath.

“I fix like headaches and scrapes, not... something people have gone to a mental hospital for.” Neil put the clipboard away.

“You can write a prescription, right?” Gwen asked, looking desperate.

“I would need a medical license,” Neil steepled his fingers, elbows on the counter, “and even with my intellect I don't think I could finish the schooling for at least, oh, a couple of months.”

Gwen rubbed her temples. “And how much would that all cost me?” She asked. “The prescription and the medication?”

“Well, there are plenty of doctors willing to take a few dollars to sign an alcohol prescription, and it costs four dollars for a pint of whiskey.” Neil flicked a spot of dust off of the counter. “Campbell goes through about a pint every three to five days, for reference.”

Gwen clenched her jaw. “I don't have that kind of money.”

“That's the less expensive option, assuming a physician could even be convinced to write a prescription for something more... specialized.” Neil frowned. “Sorry, officer.”

Gwen let out an angry sigh. “It's fine,” she grumbled, “I just have to get through this case, then things will get better...”

“Hey kiddo,” came a lazy female voice from the doorway, and then, “oh!”

A pause, as Gwen looked up and locked eyes with a certain gorgeous blonde woman who had just burst into the shop.

“Is...” Jen froze, looking from Neil to Gwen and back. “Is this a bad time?”

Gwen blinked. “Jen?” she brightened, then hesitated. “It's okay, I was just leaving,” she trailed off, stuffing her hands into her pockets. She'd forgotten for a moment how badly their last conversation had gone.

...Which had been badly, right? She remembered feeling awkward and like she'd said the wrong thing, but she couldn't for the life of her remember what that had been.

“Gwendolyn, what a surprise,” Jen drawled, a smile crawling across her face like a crocodile across a road - sharp, and slow until it wasn't anymore, and it was too late.

“It's... just Gwen,” she found herself smiling back cautiously over the collar of her coat.

Jen noticed that the bridge of Gwen’s nose had gone pink. It was cute.

“Gwen,” she nodded, “give me one minute. Gotta buy my shit.” She turned to Neil.

“It's almost ready, I was just packing the last few things, the embalming fluid is in there, new needles, that rubber bulb thing you had me special order...” he ticked off on his fingers.

Jen shrugged. “Alright, I'll be back in a few then.” She caught Gwen’s eye and jerked her chin towards the back door.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Neil called from over the counter, jumping down from his stool. “Send my dad back if you happen to see him.”

“Can do, buddy,” Jen chuckled. And then, to Gwen, “he's a sweet kid.”

“I can't believe he's twelve,” Gwen muttered. “He'd do my job better than me at this rate.”

Jen gave another little laugh, soft like chiming bells.

Gwen followed Jen to the door and outside, into the alleyway.

She remembered that David had run out here to find a suspicious man, and found Kevin. She looked right and left down the thin concrete road back here just to take in the scenery. Brick, trash cans, old rain. There were gaps between the buildings here, so it was lighter and had a nice breeze compared to the solid hallways of man made stone that made up many other city alleyways.

Jen reached into her coat and pulled out a metal case and a lighter. The case flipped open with a satisfying click, and she produced a cigarette. Biting down on the end, she held it between her lips and tucked the case away. It took a couple of sparks from her lighter behind her cupped hand, but she managed to light it with a pinpoint of flame and a gentle breath.

She exhaled smoke, and then offered the lit cigarette to Gwen between two long, slender fingers.

“Oh, no, I don't--”

“You look like shit,” Jen said bluntly. “Take it.”

Gwen took it. She eyeballed the pink lipstick clinging to the orange filter, and felt heat burn in her cheeks as she touched it to her own lips. She mimicked Jen, sticking the end into her mouth and pulling a gentle breath through.

The smoke burned, but it also felt strangely soothing to have a real physical hurt, one she could be rid of as easily as exhaling.

“Are you okay?” Jen asked, craning her neck to look at Gwen. “You look like death. And I would know.”

Gwen grasped the cigarette between two fingers and pulled it away from her mouth. She laughed, smoke puffing out of her mouth, stinging her eyes.

And kept stinging, as suddenly, she started crying.

Gwen didn't know when the laughter had changed to tears but it was all so much all at once; the exhaustion and fear and disappointment and worry all crashed down at the first sign of a stranger’s kindness.

“I'm not,” she sniffled, and then smiled, gruesome and wet and genuine. “No, I'm... not.”

She clapped a hand over her face, scrubbing at the tears as she tried to pull herself back together like she always had.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, shit,” she muttered, “I'm not normally like this, I haven't had enough coffee, it's just, my job, I...” she sniffed.

Jen shushed her. “Let it out or whatever,” she instructed lazily. “Take another drag. It helps. And tell me about it. That helps too.”

Gwen followed her advice one step at a time. She gave the cigarette another pull, holding the smoke in her lungs for a second.

She hiccuped and started coughing smoke, a sour expression on her face.

Jen laughed like wind chimes. “That good?”

“I can't even fucking smoke right,” Gwen said bitterly.

Jen took out another cigarette for herself. She waited patiently, lighting it and watching their smoke drift away in the gentle breeze.

“It's just,” Gwen muttered, and shook her head. “I can't sleep at night anymore. I lay there, exhausted, staring at the ceiling. My mind just goes and goes and I don't want it to be the morning and if I sleep it will be,” she explained, and then, gaining speed, she continued. “And I know it's stupid but I have this constant fear about, well, you know, the Prophet is still out there... And I know there's literally no reason for a killer to break into my apartment while I'm sleeping. I'm not even, I'm... broke, constantly, and I have to convince my old-fashioned boss that I'm competent so he'll give me a raise and I just made a fool of him and me publically, and I wouldn't even blame him for wanting to kill me over it even though I know I'm on the right track, and of course just today I had to take a very nice dog away from a very sweet girl who has been taking care of him and send him back to an owner I don't trust at all! And I'm irritable from lack of sleep and everything sucks and I'm fucking ranting about it to a near-stranger who doesn't deserve this shit! Fuck!!”

She stopped, drooping a bit in exhaustion.

Jen patted her arm. “Near-stranger?” she chuckled. “I thought you said friends called you Gwen.”

She reached into her inner pocket and handed Gwen a pink handkerchief with white embroidery. J. A. B.

“Thanks,” Gwen said thickly, wiping her eyes. “Thank you, Jen.”

Jen beamed at her. “Yeah, of course! Least I could do.”

The two of them stood quietly for a few moments as Gwen dabbed her eyes with one hand and smoked with the other.

And she realized... Jen had been right. This had helped. She wasn't great, with the worry still hidden in her bones and the anger simmering in the base of her skull and exhaustion prickling behind her bruised, puffy eyes. But she was better.

“Thank you for listening to me, Jen. And letting me use your, um...” she held out the damp washcloth with a raised eyebrow.

“Keep it,” Jen laughed, “for now. Wash it and bring it back to me someday, okay? It's cold water wash, try not to fuck it up,” she drawled, her smile teasing and crooked and charming.

Gwen made a face at the piece of fabric. “Heh, yeah, that's fair. I will.”

“If it's still bad,” Jen offered, “you could always try my medication. It helps me sleep, and get up some mornings.”

Gwen finished tucking the handkerchief away and glanced up, confused. “The strong stuff? Like from a prescription?”

“Yeah,” Jen said. “That. I got, um, extra.” She started digging in her many coat pockets.

Gwen bit her lip.

“That's... very illegal,” she muttered. “But I have to get through this one case, really. Once I do and prove myself... hopefully I'll get my promotion, and a raise, and I'll have the money and time to get prescribed my own...”

“Hell yeah.” Jen nodded along. “Why bother paying some quack if you're not even sure it will work, right?” She glanced down at a tiny glass jar while it was still in her pocket. When she pulled it out, it held a few white, oblong pills.

“One of these before bed, see how that treats you,” she instructed, tapping one out of the bottle and placing into Gwen’s palm. “And then I got something else for in the morning, one minute...”

She dropped the jar back into her pocket and brought out what could have been a tin for mints. Inside, she'd divided it into two compartments: a smaller one full of loose white powder and a larger one stacked with rolling papers. With practiced ease, she loaded and rolled a tiny, thin cigarette between her dark, manicured fingers.

“Crack this open,” she explained, miming the action in midair, “and pour just a few grains under your tongue. You shouldn't even need coffee., but you might want some for the taste. This shit tastes nasty.” She laughed.

Gwen took this one more cautiously. “What are these?”

“An upper and a downer, Gwen,” Jen replied smugly. “Trust me, it will help. I didn't drop out of nursing school for nothing.” She winked.

Gwen felt her stomach go funny, her face heat up. “Oh, okay, one try can't hurt,” she gave in. “Desperate times and all. I just need one good day, one where I can think.”

“Those will do the trick,” Jen reassured her again.

“I...I really hope so,” Gwen stammered, holding the medications with a reverence and fear usually reserved for holy artifacts.

Jen checked her watch, blowing a stream of smoke out from her nose. “Well, I am way over on my lunch break. See you around?” She dropped her cigarette and crushed it under her shoe.

“Oh yeah of course!” Gwen said too quickly. Thank you again, Jen, thank you, sorry for crying all over, I--”

“Things will get better,” Jen interrupted her with a tired smile. “I'll see you around.”

Jen opened the door back into the pharmacy and took a step inside, but grabbed it before it could swing shut all the way.

Like an afterthought, she glanced back over her shoulder.

And blew Gwen a kiss.

She winked and let the door thud closed behind her.

Gwen didn't move for a long moment. Ash dropped from her cigarette. Her heart pounded against her ribcage.

Her face burned so hot, she wondered absently if it would melt right off and leave nothing but none and muscle. She would look just like that weird body they had found, and it would be all Jen’s fault.

She swallowed and tucked the medication into her inner breast pocket. Her eyes still felt a little puffy and she still felt a little foolish, but this would help.

She trusted Jen.

Gwen dropped the cigarette as Jen had - technically illegal, littering, but the alley was already littered, for lack of a better term, with cigarette butts. She squished it with her polished shoe, and started down the alleyway, star struck and hopeful for the first time in a long while.

\---

David squinted out the car window as Gwen parked in their usual stakeout spot. Campbell waved to their car from his yard, and made his way across the street.

“I guess he just got home while I was picking you up,” Gwen yawned.

“He hasn't been home much this week,” David wondered out loud.

“Neither have we,” Gwen pointed out. “And a body was found in the yard. For once, I can understand.”

They both quieted down as Campbell grew close, grinning from ear to ear. Gwen began rolling down the window, but Campbell, without warning, opened the door to the back seat and collapsed comfortably inside.

“Hey kids!” he greeted them. “Tired of watching my house yet?”

“It's very yellow,” David nodded in agreement.

Gwen bit her lip. “Just... excited to get back out there on the case is all,” she said carefully.

“Well good! Because that's where you're headed,” Campbell announced. “You're off stakeout and back on the case, effective immediately.

Gwen, who hadn't slept since waking up yesterday afternoon and heading to the pharmacy, stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“So, normal work hours?” she asked, tone practiced and curious even as she felt her exhaustion flare up in rage.

“I mean,” Campbell laughed, “what else would they be?”

Gwen pressed her lips into a thin line to keep herself from correcting him or arguing. It was just a few more hours, she told herself. Only about ten more hours.

...Her head throbbed.

“Thank you, Commissioner!” David chirped, “and it's nice to see you back in your safe home!”

“Oh yeah, I knew you guys would do a great job. Someone forgot to put new toilet paper back on the roll, but that's fine, I'll just sock your pay a little,” he laughingly joked.

Hopefully.

“Okay, we'll be at the station in twenty minutes!” David said, turning to give a salute.

Gwen hesitated again before following suit.

“Get back into high gear, officers!” Campbell boomed. “I want to see new leads by the end of the day, and I don't care what you have to do to get them!”

“Can do!” David grinned.

“Yes sir,” Gwen agreed, trying to keep the bone-deep fatigue out of her voice.

Campbell scooted out of the car. “Now that's what I like to hear!” he cheered them on, slamming the door behind him and slapping the back paneling like a jockey spurring on a horse.

Gwen turned the key in the ignition as David waved at the commissioner through the window.

They pulled away. Gwen sighed, ending in a frustrated noise. “He knows I've had night shift for a week, right?”

David's smile vanished, replaced with realization. “Oh...no,” he muttered. “I'm sure he just forgot, but... We can finally investigate the Blue Peacock for that lead!”

“Let's just hope we find something good,” Gwen sighed again.

\---

Gwen pulled open the blue drapes, searching both sides for blood, stains, tears, signs of a struggle. They were clean, just like the Blue Peacock’s tablecloths, the rug, the counter. It didn't make sense.

David poked his head out from the kitchen. “Knives are clean, all here. What was Daniel... why are we looking here?” He scratched his head.

“You said there was a hearse, right? But there's nothing here. No body, no blood, no weapons or anything at all out of the ordinary.” Gwen pulled out a chair and sat down, sipping at the coffee she and David had bought on the way over here from the station. “No spills, or broken plates, or strange splinters.”

“No weird wine,” David muttered into his cup.

Gwen stared down at the steam, trying not to nod off. “Fuck,” she swore, slapping her face. “Your boyfriend couldn't have been a little more clear?”

“Maybe we were supposed to find nothing,” David tried.

“Or maybe,” Gwen yawned, “we were supposed to come earlier and get mugged.”

“Hey!” David protested. “Are you suggesting Daniel would do such a thing?”

“He's just strange, David. This, here, is strange.” Gwen took a sip.

David pulled out a chair at the next table over, closer to the middle of the room, turned sideways to converse with Gwen. He set his coffee cup on the table with a click. “No, we’re just not looking in the right place, Gwen. I'm sure of it.”

He reached for his coffee without turning around.

And batted it off the table edge. With a jangle, it hit the wooden floor and splashed out the contents, but by some miracle, it managed not to break.

“David!” Gwen jumped. “This is a fucking crime scene!”

“Oh no, geez,” David muttered, clambering off of the chair and down to his knees. “It's okay, I'll just clean it up and make sure I didn't get it on anything important, oh gosh...”

He put his hand on the still-warm mug and froze.

“...David?” Gwen asked.

“Gwen, look at this,” David hissed, inches from the floor under the table. He pointed at the spill.

Gwen got up and kneeled beside him. “Your coffee?”

“Right there,” David pointed again. “Listen.”

Gwen squinted. The coffee had started pooling under the table, but stopped at one particular floorboard. She turned her head to listen, too, and heard it. The faint dripping, under the floorboards.

“Holy shit, move the table,” she muttered. “There's something under here.”

David jumped up and dragged the table to one side, letting the afternoon sun pouring through the windows hit the floor for the first time in a while.

Now they could both clearly see the trapdoor set quite expertly into the wooden slats, the handle nothing but a hole big enough for a finger with the edges painted to look like a knot in the lumber.

David stuck his finger in, and lifted.

Underneath the Blue Peacock lay a set of stairs, now damp with cooling coffee. It led down into an unlit room. But the scent of alcohol wafting up from below was unmistakable.

“Oh my god,” David breathed. “It's a speakeasy. The Blue Peacock was hiding a speakeasy.”

\---

Daniel Goodfellow sat at his kitchen table, sun pouring through a tall window and tea pouring expertly into a delicate cup. He wore a smoking jacket - silken and dark as wine - over a stark white union suit and black socks with black garters. He'd just climbed out of a hot bath, hair still wet and combed back, face newly shaven and soft.

An apple pie cooled on the windowsill, golden brown and dusted with sugar. The gleaming kitchen smelled of warmth and cleanliness; cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and a hint of bleach.

He unfolded the newspaper he'd retrieved from the front step and laid it out in front of him, scanning the headlines as he busied his hands with a raw red apple and his silver knife. With a pinching motion, he sliced thin circles of the fruit off of one side, catching them between his teeth and eating them off the blade.

The headline today was not about the Blue Peacock, or David, and only barely about the Prophet. He frowned, but read on.

And quickly brightened again.

They were still stuck on David’s partner, that clever young woman who dared to speak for the commissioner and give a single unpopular opinion. Daniel read through yet another rehashing of that press conference, shaking his head and grinning.

“Male victims were seduced by a female Prophet?” Daniel chuckled. He sipped at his tea, humming as he placed it back in the saucer with a tiny chime. “Oh David, you of all people should know by now, the people who frequent speakeasies have much queerer tastes than that.”

When he'd cleaned the apple flesh down to the core, he began absentmindedly flicking the seeds onto the newspaper with the tip of his knife as he hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a few more quick notes!  
> -Pharmaceuticals in the 1920s were wild. Look up 1920s cough syrup labels sometime. Almost nothing was being used for their modern uses, with a few exceptions. And in most cases, doctors were happy to write you a prescription for anything under the sun! ...for a price. (remember, $4 then = $56 now)  
> -World War I was called The Great War prior to the beginning of World War II. I didn't actually know that before starting this fic because it had never occurred to me that they wouldn't have numbered it unless there was more than one.  
> -Romulus and Remus are two brothers from Roman mythology who supposedly founded Rome after being raised by a wolf. Snake isn't as subtle as he thinks he is.  
> -12 was not _that_ young to be working in the family business. (In fact, child labor was not just legal, it was quite popular. It was only outlawed in America in 1938, and even then, only just.)  
>  -You guys have all seen the John Mulaney sketch about olde timey medical examiners so I don't have to explain how much of a joke it was compared to modern day.  
> -Lastly, smoking was beyond a cultural norm in the early 1900s. Doctors would prescribe cigarettes for things like, oh, you know. Asthma. Just keep that in mind please!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading once more! I always love hearing what you guys think and you're actually helping me shape the narrative a bit with your input, so don't be shy!!
> 
> Up next is the finale of act 1... have you been paying attention?


	6. Mister you make me crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from St. James Ballroom by Alice Francis. Welcome to the end of act 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry.

David walked into the bustling station holding a hot dog in each hand. He made his way over to his desk, weaving between senior officers as they clasped one another on the back, reminiscing about some robbery they heroically stopped or how their latest raise let them go on vacation in the country.

He pulled out his desk chair with his foot and flopped into it with a tired whoosh of air.

Gwen looked up from a mountain of papers with a smile. “Finally,” she sighed, faking playful annoyance.

David paused, taking in her bright smile, lack of dark circles under her eyes, the amount of work she had apparently gotten through already, the clock on the wall behind her.

He handed her a hot dog cautiously. “What does that mean? I'm still early.”

Gwen checked her wristwatch. “Oh, I've been here a couple of hours already,” she admitted, rolling back the napkin and taking a bite from her hot dog. She wiped mustard and relish off of her face with the back of her hand and licked it up.

Now it was David's turn to laugh. “How much coffee did you have?” he asked, giggling as Gwen caught a handful of ketchup that squeezed out the backside.

“None yet,” Gwen shrugged, wiping the ketchup back into the bun and taking another bite.

David scrunched up his face in confusion. “Wait, how are you so rested? I thought you were going to keel over yesterday.”

Gwen swallowed around the bread and processed meat. “Got a good night’s sleep for once,” she shrugged again.

“Oh.” David thought quietly for a moment, staring down into a mess of sauces and chopped onions. “Well, I'm glad!”

“Mm, yeah,” Gwen muttered around the food. “An’ thanks for this grub, holy shit.”

David leaned over both desks and grasped a paper at random between two clean fingertips. “What are you looking at next? Are we any closer to the Prophet?” David took his first bite of hot dog, and fished a bit of napkin out of his mouth.

“Hmm,” Gwen hummed, turning to keep the mess away from the desk. “It's funny, I think we would be farther on this case if the senior officers and detectives had worked together more. I know this isn't a one-team sort of caseload, but after examining some of these victim specifics...” Gwen took another bite, chewed, set the half-eaten hot dog on the far side of her desk, and swallowed. She reached absentmindedly into her vest and pulled out a white handkerchief- and a second one, pink, came tangled out with it. Gwen wiped her hands off on the white one, and David snatched up the extra.

“J...A...B?” he read aloud. “That's not your initials.”

Gwen pulled it out of his hands and tucked it back into her vest. Her face went pink around the ears and nose. “I met someone, keep it down,” she murmured, glancing around the room.

David beamed at her. “Oh gosh!” he whispered excitedly. “Who is she?”

“I'll tell you later,” Gwen hissed back as the station door swung open. The commissioner burst inside, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

“As I was saying,” she muttered loudly enough for Campbell to hear as he walked past, “the victim specifics are interesting when you look at them while asking one question: who could kill these victims?”

She saw Campbell raise his eyebrows and nod approvingly out of the corner of her eye, then continue through the station, observing and listening in.

David nodded excitedly. “Yeah? What are you thinking?”

“The victims were posed, more or less,” she continued, “so the killer would have to be strong enough to lift and manipulate these men and women, right?”

“Right!” David chirped.

“And that means they must be really strong, lifting all of these big men, right?”

“Right!” David agreed again.

“Wrong,” Gwen grinned, taking one of the papers and slapping it down in front of David. “I double checked, and this is the heaviest victim.”

David lifted the paper and scanned it. “The mechanic?”

“Barely one-seventy. Something tells me this guy was mostly a pencil pusher.”

“Wow, he's only a little heavier than me,” David blinked.

Gwen laughed. “You have half a foot on the guy too, what are you, six, six one? You're a twig!” Gwen chuckled. “Eat your hot dog.”

David saluted with one hand and lifted the food in the other. He took a huge bite, barely chewed, gulped it down. “I'm working on it, okay? I'm up to one-fifty.”

“Mostly in skin and bones,” Gwen laughed again. “It's all height. I’d bet I have more muscle than you,” she teased.

David ate his hot dog faster.

“So if my profile is correct, the Prophet is a woman who could at least piggyback either of us.”

“You're the Prophet,” David giggled, taking another bite.

Gwen flexed and gave a bow.

“You have anything else?” David asked with a mouthful of food.

Gwen frowned as she took a moment to think. “Yeah, you're right, that doesn't narrow it down a whole lot...”

David gulped. “Okay, so, can we go over the Blue Peacock stuff again? I didn't really get it, I'm just glad you convinced Campbell to let us go home,” David admitted with mustard on his teeth.

“Oh yeah!” Gwen brightened. “So I think I figured that one out too, and we just have to ask around,” she motioned excitedly, pulling out a different piece of paper. “Do you remember everything we saw last night?”

“The...speakeasy?” He lowered his voice. “Yeah, what about it?”

“The way I convinced Campbell was, well...” she dangled the list of victims in front of David’s face so he could read and eat, “every victim we’ve identified has owned a business.”

“Yeah, I remember.” David scanned over it.

“Specifically, they all own the buildings their businesses are in.”

“...Okay?”

Gwen sighed. “So did Theodore.”

David blankly chewed the penultimate bite of hot dog.

“I told him that much and he agreed it was a good lead, but I took the logic one step further now that my head’s clearer. It seems so obvious. Okay, the fact Theodore turned the basement of the business he owned into a speakeasy, and all of the other victims also owned their buildings...”

A bit of relish dribbled down David’s chin, and he didn't notice. “They're all speakeasies!” he hissed, eyes wide.

Gwen nodded, face breaking into a clever smile. “I haven't told anyone yet, but my gut is telling me that if we poked around in those buildings, we’d find speakeasies.”

“Then Theodore--” David started with a gasp.

“--knows the Prophet is targeting people like him,” Gwen said proudly.

“--ran away when he had the chance!” David finished at the same time. He frowned. “But then why was there a hearse?”

“Well,” Gwen smiled.

David settled back in his chair, finishing the hot dog.

“What was missing last night?” Gwen quizzed him.

David rubbed his hands together to brush off the crumbs. “I dunno, it was a little like Kevin's place actually, tables and chairs, dance floor, bar,” he listed off, reaching up to scratch his chin and finding the relish.

Gwen waited, her arms crossed.

“The... alcohol?” David looked up in realization.

“The two stained circles on the floor, they were just the right size for barrels standing on end,” Gwen nodded. “Not to mention, the bar was bare.”

“So he took the goods when he ran,” David gasped. “But where did he put the--” he froze.

“He'd need a vehicle,” Gwen said casually. “A big one, for the big barrels. Something with a bit of room, but also something nobody would want to look inside.”

“Oh my _gosh_ ,” David hissed. “Gwen, you’re so smart! You need to get a full night’s sleep more often!”

Gwen picked at one of her nails smugly. “True.”

“So we poke around, make sure we find the speakeasies?” David suggested. “Because if they’re not, we have to start over.”

“And if they are?” Gwen asked, raising her eyebrows.

“We... split up?” David shrugged. “Poke around, see if you can figure out who gave Theodore the hearse, and I’ll have time to go to Kevin’s tonight?”

“What, are you going to question him? And Daniel?”

David nodded once. “Yes, and then I’m going to warn Kevin. If you’re right? He could be targeted.”

Gwen hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, you get the addresses of all the victims’ businesses, and I’ll get a phone book.”

“Good idea, make sure you check funeral homes and cemeteries as well as car dealerships,” he listed off, pulling papers from her desk onto his.

“I need fifteen minutes, I’ll also pull addresses from churches with attached graveyards, and I’ll start with the places closest to the Blue Peacock and work my way out from there.”

David beamed. “We’re really going to do this!”

Gwen’s smile looked almost manic as she pulled a map from the wall.

“Yeah,” she agreed, “we fucking are.”

\---

Gwen parked the car in front of a smart white building, black letters nailed up to spell “Harrison Family Funeral Home.” It was the closest mortuary to the Blue Peacock, and Gwen’s first stop.

She couldn't believe how quickly they had found speakeasies in the eight businesses they had managed to check today. Every single one had a hidden panel, a trapdoor, a false wall.

It felt good to be right.

After a quick trek up the concrete walk, Gwen knocked on the door. It was mid-afternoon and the business was still open, so Gwen wasn't surprised when it took a moment before someone answered the door.

A woman in a modest, pale green dress stepped into the doorway with a polite smile. As soon as she saw Gwen’s police cap, she blinked in surprise.

“Hello? Can I help you, officer?” she greeted Gwen, shrinking back into the doorway.

Gwen noted the gentle accent. Southern...country, maybe? It was charming.

“Hello, I'm officer Maddox, here on some special orders from the commissioner’s investigative office,” she told the woman, flipping open her badge.

“Have we done something wrong, officer?” the woman flinched back. “Or is this about our boy?”

Gwen tucked the badge away. “Mrs. Harrison, I presume? I'm just doing some canvassing, my team is looking for a hearse. Was there any time in the last two months where one of your hearses has gone missing, or been loaned out? Any after-hours drop-offs that seemed strange?”

“We just have the one, I don't think so,” she answered. “But I'm just in charge of the wakes, officer, um... you would have to ask our demisurgeon, my husband and I don't deal with the handling of the deceased except to help lift them sometimes,” Mrs. Harrison continued. “Come in, she's downstairs with a, um, client.”

Gwen blinked. How many female demisurgeons could there be in this city?

She followed Mrs. Harrison inside, glancing around at the soft pinks, the cream rugs, the doilies.

Mrs. Harrison led Gwen to an elegant stairwell, the railing decorated with beautifully lathed wood. Cedar?

Underneath, a wall panel that Mrs. Harrison popped open.

“We don't want our guests to wander in on Jennifer while she's working,” Mrs. Harrison explained quickly. “We just have the one building, and we want to avoid having the bereaved be exposed to... well, you'll understand.” She waved Gwen into the stairway with a sad smile.

“Jennifer!” She called down the stairs, “there's an officer here to ask a few questions about the hearse! Please be nice to her!”

Gwen sucked in a breath. She blinked quickly, mind racing.

“Th-thank you,” she managed to say, and started downstairs. She pushed open the door at the bottom, dumbfounded.

Jen sat next to a metal table with a clearly dead older woman on it. Jen held some sort of rubber bulb with a reddish tube coming out of the bottom over her head, picking at her thumbnail on her other hand as something drained into the woman’s neck. Blood drained from a tube in the back of the corpse’s leg with a steady _plip plip_ into the gutter framing the slab.

Jen looked up. Her eyes were so pale and blue as she blinked in surprise.

“Hello, officer,” she greeted Gwen with a grin. And then, she winked.

Gwen immediately felt heat in her face, but composed herself. “Jen?” She laughed breathily. “It really is you!”

“It's been so long,” Jen joked, setting the bulb down on the dead woman’s chest and standing.

She wore heels today. Not huge, but enough to put her an inch or two taller than Gwen.

“So,” Jen sighed, “I'm guessing you're here to bust me?” She held out her wrists.

Gwen tipped her head up a few inches, eyes wide. “Oh, uh, I-I’m actually here to ask about your business's hearse. That was the truth.” She glanced at the body. “Am I interrupting something important?”

Jen dropped her wrists and tilted her head with another laugh like a sweet, chiming bell. “She's not going anywhere fast. And, I must say,” she leaned in closer, “you look good, Gwen. Much better.”

Gwen clasped her hands behind her back, face tilted up, trying not to stare at the pink of Jen’s lipstick.

“Yes, I, um,” Gwen stammered for a second, and bit her lip. “I'm here on business for the moment, Jen.” She took half a step back and, slowly, took a notebook and pen from her coat pocket.

Jen sat again, hooking one ankle neatly behind the other and folding her hands in her lap. “So, what can I help you with today, officer?”

Gwen swallowed. She reached up and adjusted her tie, loosening it a little.

“You're in charge of the hearse here at Harrison Family Funeral Home, correct?” she asked, her voice confident despite the blush.

“I drive the thing, yeah?” Jen drawled.

“Have you loaned it out recently? Hauled anything in it other than bodies?”

Jen didn't even have to think about it. “No and no, but I sometimes drive it around to lunch or when it's raining. Job perks, you know?” She picked a hair absently off of her smock.

“Have you been to the Blue Peacock anytime in the last two months?” Gwen tried again.

“Yup, got a reward card and all, gotta use it. Where else is there to get lunch around here?” She leaned back in her chair. “Nowhere is better than the Peacock in these parts, except maybe the Motterie. They have good pastries.”

“Have you been there with the hearse within the past two weeks, after hours?” Gwen checked off the question.

Jen paused. “...I was, actually, yeah.”

Gwen furrowed her brow. “And why were you there?”

“I think you know, Gwen.” She sat up again, prom and proper. “You and that energized brain of yours know exactly why.” She tapped a pink nail against her forehead.

Gwen felt that horse kick of terror in her gut as she jumped to conclusions. It was just her luck that the cute girl who actually might kinda like her wasn't only a criminal, but a nasty one at that.

But then she let herself calm down, think back.

“Kevin,” she realized and spoke at the same time, with a surprising amount of relief. “Drugs. The drop point under the statue. That's why you said it like that.” She exhaled.

Jen gave her the point, the wink, the click. “Got it in one,” she smiled. “Couldn't have done that yesterday.”

“That's true,” Gwen considered. “So you definitely didn't let Theodore use your hearse at any point, ever?”

Jen’s grin went as wide as possible. “The owner? Definitely not,” she giggled. “I don't let anyone else drive it.”

“But you drive it over to pick up some sort of... illegal medications? ...Drugs?” She took a step closer to Jen, now towering over her.

Jen’s eyes lit up. “Yes, officer,” she offered her wrists again. “Maybe you would like to talk about it in the back of your car?”

Gwen felt her face burning up. “Jen, please, that's not--”

Jen laughed again, behind her hand. “I'm just teasing you, officer. Lighten up!” She turned to the slab and gave the bulb a good squeeze, making the body twitch in the lower jaw region. “Didn't know I had two stiffs in here.”

“I'm a cop, Jen,” Gwen sighed. “I didn't say this but, um,” she shifted uncomfortably, “you might want to lie to me.”

Jen hid a giggle behind her hand. “You really don't want to arrest me, do you?”

Gwen stared down at the floor; tile, stained here and there with blood but taken care of otherwise. Pink tinted her face. She didn't, did she? The realization came with more questions.

Why? Jen was breaking the law. She could fine her at least.

“Oh my god,” Jen gave a scandalized gasp. “You want more drugs!”

Gwen opened her mouth, closed it.

Jen jumped back in, “I can just tell Kevin to drop off tonight,” she offered.

“I know it's illegal, I caught Kevin dropping them before and told him I had better not catch him again.” Gwen shook her head.

“Only as illegal as anything else you don't have a prescription for,” Jen pointed out, tapping the side of her nose and then crossing her arms. “Less illegal than alcohol, even.” She smiled knowingly.

Gwen sighed. “I slept, I... I had so much energy, I made so many breakthroughs in the case.” She chewed her lip. “It wore off so fast, but it helped so much... fuck,” she rubbed her forehead. “Maybe just a little more, just enough to get through this case, and then... I'll be okay.” She sighed.

Jen took Gwen’s hand and ran her thumb over Gwen’s knuckles. “Lot of stress?” she drawled.

“Yeah, my boss, the commissioner--”

“Real piece of work, that guy,” Jen smirked. “Go on.”

“I have to impress him. Me.” Gwen motioned to herself.

Jen squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

There was a pause, the only noises in the room the cooler drawers running and the plink of blood draining from the body and hitting the metal gutter. Finally, Jen spoke again.

“Kevin does owe me a favor," she said offhandedly. “I can get you a few more days’ worth, no charge. Consider it my way of saying I believe in you. And I have a sneaking suspicion I know which case it is you're on, and, well... I'd do anything to have you catch the right guy.”

Gwen squeezed Jen’s hand back. “Really? You-you mean it?” She lit up.

“Yeah, he does some courier work for me when I have pressing matters at hand,” Jen motioned at the body with a nod, “and I bailed him out of some, shall we say, financial issues. What better way to use that favor?”

“I meant--”

“He’ll have it tonight,” Jen cut in. “He has my next drop almost ready, I'll just tell him in a bit. You can pick it up at the statue, if you've already caught him I'm sure you know what I mean.”

“The peacock,” Gwen nodded. “I don't need it that fast, I'll be--”

“You won't sleep if I don't,” Jen warned her.

Gwen considered for a long moment, and then let out any objections with a defeated sigh. “I'm sorry, I'm just not used to people actually wanting to help in this city,” she muttered.

Jen stood, and leaned in close.

Gwen jumped.

“Like I said, I'd do anything to help you catch the guy. I know you can do it, you've got drive, brains, really, um,” she blinked, “excellent biceps.”

“What?”

Jen smiled and followed Gwen’s half-step retreat, holding out her other hand.

Gwen reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a pink handkerchief, holding it up between them. Her blush matched the color of the fabric.

“I-I remembered,” she stammered, her nose only inches away from Jen’s pretty, smiling face.

Jen took the hand holding the handkerchief. “Nervous?” she asked quietly. She pulled Gwen closer.

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, breathing in the scent of Jen’s delicate flower-and-herb perfume.

Jen shifted, and pecked Gwen on the cheek. It was quick, but soft and warm and Gwen gasped, her eyes flying open and blush burning under her darker complexion.

“Jen, I...”

“I need to get back to work, officer,” Jen cut her off, sinking back down into her chair with a grin like a slash of white and pink. “Blue Peacock, tonight,” she reminded Gwen again, turning back to the dead woman.

Gwen stood silent for a second, tamping down on her boiling emotions with sheer force of will until they dulled to a simmer, for the moment.

“Okay,” she gasped, looking down at her hands.

She was still holding the handkerchief.

“Here,” she offered it again, “you forgot this.”

Jen glanced at it. “Keep it,” she smiled. “You can use it to get the lipstick off your,” she pointed at her own cheek.

“I’ve got one!” Gwen scrambled, pulling out the white cloth - which she had forgotten was balled up and smeared with hot dog condiments.

“I, uh,” she tried to explain.

Jen laughed, her voice sweeter than her perfume. “Keep it, Gwen. Think of me when you take it out. I know I'll be thinking of you.”

Sheepishly, Gwen tucked the stained handkerchief back into her pocket and lifted the pink one to her cheek. A few good scrubs, and Jen nodded approvingly.

“All better, officer,” she winked. “But now I have to get miss Robinson into the fridge before she goes funny, okay?”

Gwen smiled back, looking a little lost. She couldn't quite remember why she had come.

Jen tugged the handle of a refrigerated drawer set in the wall. It slid open like a cutting board from a kitchen counter, letting out a wave of cool air.

She turned back to the slab and scooped one arm under the corpse’s knees and the other under her shoulders, and with a sharp intake of breath, hoisted her. Jen swung around and, with a lot of effort, took the two steps back to the drawer and laid the body inside.

Despite the cool air, Gwen felt very hot again. Sweat stuck to her collar as she watched, wide-eyed, finally putting one foot in front of the other and making her way towards the door.

Jen was not only beautiful and graceful, she was also thoughtful, and strong, and had useful friends in low places...

Gwen touched her cheek as she leaned against the door, pushing it open. As she stepped back into the hidden stairwell she remembered to call, “Oh, bye Jen, uh, see you!” over her shoulder.

She felt energized again like she had that morning, but also stunned silly. The pink handkerchief made her palm feel warm and tingly as she held it tight, her steps up the stairs light but her feet heavy as lead. Her mind buzzed and her blood pumped in quick thuds through her veins.

The ringing in her ears reminded her of wind chimes, and not alarm bells.

\---

David tied his tie for the fourth time since he'd climbed into the car, unsure of what to do with his hands.

Gwen didn't stop him, her eyes glued to the road.

“Did you find the hearse?” David asked, unsatisfied with the knot and pulling it apart again.

“...No,” Gwen said carefully, not wanting to explain everything. “I'll have to keep checking tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you didn't have a lot of time after finding eight speakeasies,” David supposed aloud.

“Even the place I managed to get to was closing pretty soon, but I had time to talk to the owners and their hearse hadn't gone missing.” Gwen stifled a yawn.

David finished tying his tie for a fifth time. He looked straight down at it with a grimace - single Windsor knots always came out crooked for him. He hooked a finger in the knot and pulled, starting again.

“Nervous?” Gwen asked.

“No,” David insisted, and then “yes? Okay, a bit. I just want to know why he'd tell me he works for Campbell if he doesn't.”

“Yeah, lying to a cop in a speakeasy? Shady.”

David very carefully looped the tie over and poked it through the knot. He wiggled it, shifted it around, pinched to get the nice crease in the center, and tightened it with a smooth pull.

“How does this look?” David motioned at his handiwork.

“Sixth time’s the charm, I guess,” Gwen smiled. “Looks sharp, David, looks professional.”

“Too professional?” David asked, worried. “Like a person who couldn't cut a rug?”

“Fuck off, David, it looks perfect,” Gwen groaned. “Besides, you don't have time to tie it again, we’re around the corner.”

David peered out the window for the first time in several long minutes, watching Gwen easily steer around the sparse smattering of parked vehicles. Most looked just like their police car - a model T. David wasn't too good at recognizing cars, but he gasped at the sight of an expensive Rolls-Royce neatly parked in an alley. Something about the speakeasy atmosphere seemed to make the customers want to show off any wealth they might have and, looking down at the silver pocket watch clipped into his buttonhole, David realized it felt... nice. Maybe even a little powerful.

Gwen turned the corner and drove past Kevin’s pawn shop, carefully checking for signs of danger, or a party. The street was as silent as a grave, and, except for the few street lamps and stars, just as dark.

“I'm going to park a little further down,” Gwen muttered, drumming her fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. “Tonight feels...different, somehow.”

“Maybe it's because you finally got some sleep,” David teased.

“Either way, I don't want to get caught out here. This is getting dangerous, David. If even one person suspects we’re cops...” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“I'll be careful.”

Gwen pulled up to the curb about a block down and across the street from the pawn shop, checking the mirrors before killing the engine.

“I'll see you in a few hours, Gwen!” David chirped, fumbling with the door handle and tripping over himself as he climbed out. “Keep a good lookout for any funny business, my gun and badge are under the seat, uh... I can't think of anything else to remind you about, so that's it!”

“Cuff your sleeves up,” Gwen said with a nod of understanding. “And if you run into any trouble, come straight out here. It's, there's something,” she tried to explain, “maybe I'm just being weird, but really do be careful in there tonight.”

“Yeah mom,” David laughed, “I always am!”

He slammed the door shut and beamed as he gave a professional little salute through the window.

Gwen - now technically a lower rank - saluted back.

David turned and, with a spring in his step, made his way across the road and towards the dark pawn shop.

Gwen tapped her fingers on the steering wheel again, watching for movement like a hawk.

Several minutes passed. A light drizzle coated the windshield in speckles of water, the warm asphalt steaming in the cool night air. It quickly tapered off and now, with drops catching light from all sides and ghosts rising from the street, Gwen focused on cataloging her surroundings instead.

The cars lining the streets like the discarded shells of dead insects all looked black in the night, against grey stone and dark brick stained darker with rain. Alleyways opened like maws between buildings, broken glass and trash cans their teeth. A flash of lightning burst in the distance, and Gwen saw... it.

Nestled in the alleyway across the street from Gwen and silhouetted for only a second, a vehicle.

Rectangular, dark, empty.

A hearse.

\---

David ducked inside and closed the cellar door behind him slowly, glancing around in the darkness for Kevin or some other guard.

Nobody.

Music and chatter filtered cheerily through the wall. The broom that usually leaned up in the corner sagged dangerously close to the door, so David stood it back up in the corner before pulling the door open.

Smoke and perfume and laughter and jollity burst into the little closet, and David welcomed it, stepped into it with eyes wide open. He'd actually missed this. The energy, the flickering candlelight, the jazz.

Daniel.

He searched past the tightly packed crowd to their usual booth, and sure enough, Daniel sat with his elbow on the table, swirling a glass of something amber. His mouth was quirked down in a pensive frown, cheek resting on his gloved fist.

He looked up, and after a second, locked eyes with David. He blinked in pleasant surprise, perking up. With one slender hand he motioned invitingly to the seat beside him, smile slowly going smug.

David - who stood head and shoulders above most people in the crowded room - gave a short, excited wave. He then held up a single finger in the universal sign for “just a minute.”

Daniel nodded and took another sip of his drink, leaning back in the booth.

David glanced around, searching for a red shirt and a beard that had been a 5 o’clock shadow two days ago. He spotted them, and Kevin, by the bar.

He weaved through throngs of happy, half-drunk dancers and gamblers and chatting friends packed shoulder to shoulder, muttering apologies and “excuse me”s.

Kevin stood up at the disruption and, after realizing who it was, made his way towards David in much the same method. He pointed David back towards the closet insistently, and David, already ten feet into the room, turned back. He apologized to the same people he'd pushed through before, gathering stares.

Kevin caught up to him quickly, much more judicious in the use of his bony elbows and able to use David's wake. Instead of apologizing, he would grunt “I'm Kevin,” or “I own this joint,” and watch the crowd scramble unsteadily out of his path.

David pushed the door open again and Kevin followed quickly behind, shutting it and throwing the broom across to effectively bar it.

“Kid, I've got this--” Kevin started.

“We think the Prophet is--” David blurted at the same time as he spun around to warn Kevin.

They both paused for a moment, and then Kevin took the envelope, now folded once, from his pocket.

“What's this?” David asked, turning it over, seeing his name written in big block letters.

“Some guy, or tall lady maybe, or... I don't know, they came in this door before I opened a few days back, dropped this, then ran off. I swear I didn't see them, they had on a big coat and a hat, kept their head down, all of it.” Kevin pointed at the envelope. “Open it, I tried not to bend it just in case.”

David could feel his heart pounding behind his ribs. Whatever this was, the courier had known where to give it to him, what his name was, and that he was tied to unfinished business here.

He peeled the crinkled envelope open, and out toppled an old, faded playing card.

“Oh... gosh,” David gasped, eyes wide. He turned it over in his hands. An ace of clubs. On the back, a plain letter B written in steady black marker.

“What do you make of that?” Kevin asked. “Do you know what the B means?”

“It's one of the cards Jasper stole,” David whispered.

“Where’s the other twelve, do you suppose?” Kevin sounded excited now.

“I don't know what this means, I don't know where the rest are and why there's just one here but, Kevin, this is what I came here for, I’m...” his hands shook. “He's alive, he just has to be, he wants me to find him, I--”

Kevin interrupted with a hand on David’s shoulder. “Kid,” he said gruffly, barely louder than the band through the wall, “I didn't see the guy so I don't want to get your hopes up too damn high. This could be whatever happened to him coming back to happen to you. It could be the bait on a big fishing hook. Just be careful. You're my favorite cop, got that? I need you to stay alive long enough to become the next commissioner, yeah?” He patted David's shoulder a few more times.

“But getting my hopes up is my only real skill,” David sighed. He tucked the envelope and card away. “If I don't keep my hopes up, I'll just give up. And I'm not giving up on Jasper. Not ever.”

“What did this guy even do for you?” Kevin chuckled. “Old, um, old flame?”

David gave him a puzzled look. “He's my best friend. We've known each other since this old summer camp we went to,” David laughed sadly. “He helped me leave home, found me a place, risked his own hide to help get me this job, and then he mentored me, protected me...”

Kevin pulled David into an awkward, one-armed hug-pat. “Okay, yeah, I get the picture,” he muttered grumpily, looking uncomfortable. “You're gonna get him back, okay? If, uh, if neither of you are dead I guess.” Kevin pulled away.

“I'll be careful,” David nodded solemnly. “Everyone is telling me to be careful tonight.”

“Yeah, well, it's been a weird night.” Kevin crossed his arms, tilting his head away from the touchy, overemotional cop.

“It's really crowded in there.” David scratched his chin.

Kevin shrugged. “My supplier can keep up with demands. I guess other places are running dry.”

David frowned. He was forgetting something. “Yeah,” he hummed absentmindedly, not hearing a word Kevin said. The card burned in his mind, the possibility of seeing Jasper again distracting him.

It couldn't be that important.

“Thank you for the lead, this is exactly what I've been searching for,” David sighed in relief. He tapped the crinkling paper he'd tucked away over his heart.

Kevin nodded. “Anyways, kid, I gotta get back to work. You good? No more fuckin’ waterworks while the regulars are deep in their cups?”

“I'm okay, Kevin.” David reached out and touched his arm for a second. “Thank you. Really.”

“Yeah yeah,” Kevin waved him off, setting the broom back in the corner. “Now don't come lookin’ for me again tonight, kid, or people are gonna think things.”

David nodded solemnly. “I'll catch you later, don't forget to tell me if you see the man who gave you the card again.”

Kevin nodded as he leaned on the door, letting in the light and noise.

“Good luck, David!” he called over the jazzy music.

David followed him out and closed the door behind him. Kevin started pushing his way back through the crowd, quickly blending in and disappearing near the bar.

David turned to the back corner, standing on his toes to crane over the chattering gamblers, the drinking throngs.

Daniel still sat at the dark booth alone, staring down at something golden that fit in his palm. A pocket watch.

David felt a pang of guilt and skirted around the crowd as best he could. As he approached, Daniel caught a glimpse of him and lifted his head. With a lazy smile and satisfied, half-lidded eyes, he snapped his pocket watch closed.

“And here I thought I'd scared you off,” he called out when David stepped into earshot. He stood and let David into the booth, patiently rolling his crisp black sleeves up to the elbows as David arranged himself and slid over.

“So,” Daniel asked, gingerly perching on the edge of the booth, “did you have business to discuss with me?”

“Not business exactly.” David shook his head.

Daniel sank back into the seat. “Pleasure?” he grinned, folding his hands in his lap before reaching one mock-sneakily to brush his knuckles on David’s thigh.

His touch and effortless charm sent a hot shiver down David’s spine.

“Okay, closer to business,” David answered carefully, blush blooming across his cheekbones. “But I'm going to like it because talking to you is always my favorite part of my day, so I guess it would be both?” He gave Daniel a quizzical look, wondering if that was the right answer.

“Aren't you sweet,” Daniel chuckled. “So, what's the business? Make a breakthrough? Find a clue?” He rested his elbow on the table and his jaw on his fist, then lifted his drink. The ice clinked on glass as he tipped back a sip.

David watched Daniel swallow. “Actually, I had a question about, well, you?”

Daniel set down the glass a little too quickly, but his expression remained calm and gentle. “Me? I'm nothing special, David. But go ahead, darling boy. How can I help you?” He leaned back in his seat, torso turned towards David.

“Why did you lie about who you are?” David asked quickly before he could lose his nerve.

Daniel's smile faltered for just a split second. “Whatever do you mean?” he chuckled, reaching again for his glass.

“Daniel,” David frowned, “I got ahold of Campbell's payroll. You're not on it. And he wouldn't hire a private eye under the table.”

Daniel blinked.

“So who are you really, Daniel?” David asked, reaching out to take his hand apologetically.

Daniel hesitated, and then took it. “You caught me, officer,” he sighed, then gave him a sad smile. “I'm kind of... your opposition.” He set the glass down without drinking. “You wouldn't have trusted me if I hadn't lied.”

David’s brow drew tight in confusion, a blow of fear tightening his stomach. He tried to pull away, but Daniel only tightened his grip.

“I am a private investigator,” Daniel stressed, “but one who sells information to the highest bidder. Journalists, reporters, we're all just vultures feasting on the corpses you leave behind.”

They sat in silence for an awkward moment, Daniel having the grace to look guilty and David studying his eyes and stance and pulse.

Daniel was so calm. He hadn't glanced off or avoided David's eyes and though his pulse had jumped at the question, it had quickly evened out. He wasn't lying. Couldn't be. It didn't sound like a lie.

David squeezed Daniel's hand back and flashed him a forgiving smile.

“You seem disappointed.” Daniel lifted an eyebrow.

David frowned. Was he?

“I thought, maybe, it was something more interesting or useful,” he said all in a pinched rush that ended in a relieved little laugh. “That's it?”

“What exactly did you expect?” Daniel laughed along with David. “I'm just searching for the next big break before someone else gets it. An in. You were supposed to be it, David.” He let go of David’s hand now, turning and apologetically fixing David's hair.

It tickled, the leather glove brushing over David's temple and up to his scalp, carding his red hair back into place. David froze, heat simmering slowly up into his face all over again.

“I am sorry for the subterfuge,” Daniel continued, his voice low and hushed and intimate. His lips looked soft in the candlelight as he leaned in to examine his handiwork.

“It's, it’s okay!” David sputtered. “You didn't mean any harm, right? And you always knew so much more than me!”

“Sometimes, perhaps,” Daniel chuckled. “I'm told my investigative approach is a bit -” he reached over, swirling his finger over the rim of the glass and then flicking the side with a full chime, “unorthodox.” He clasped the glass, which silenced the hum, and took another sip.

“Can I get you anything to drink tonight?” he offered, resting one forearm on the table.

A candle flickered behind Daniel’s glass, giving the amber liquid an orange glow. His finger, in its tight black leather glove, tapped almost imperceptibly to the beat of the band’s sleazy, sexy music.

“No thank you,” David shook his head. “But, for my cover, maybe we should go dance again?”

Daniel tipped the glass back, his throat bobbing with one deep swallow. When he'd drained his drink, he set the empty glass on the lacquered wood and rose to his feet, all in one motion.

“Unfortunately, I have a bit more work to attend to later on and I can't risk tiring myself out. However,” he held out a hand to pull David up from the seat, “I have a better idea.”

David happily took Daniel’s strong hand and let himself be helped up. And then, Daniel tucked David’s hand into the crook of his elbow and began to escort him through the crowd.

“Where are we going?” David called to Daniel as he weaved between glittering timepieces and jewelry and silk waistcoats and high heels for the fourth time that night.

“I think the rain stopped,” Daniel called back over his shoulder, “it's quieter outside. For talking. Less...ears.”

David stuck close behind Daniel, hearing him say “pardon me?” with a voice like ice and watching the crowd spread open to give him a wide berth. He stepped on a few well-polished shoes on his way out if the owners didn't jump fast enough. David pressed close enough to smell his cologne mingling with the tang of warm cigar smoke and whiskey and soap. He tripped over his own feet clumsily as he hurried to stay close, muttering “sorry, sorry!” as he caught himself against Daniel’s back.

Daniel pushed the closet door open and held it, like a gentleman, for David. Once they were both inside he closed it neatly behind them. As he pointed David up the cellar stairs with a mischievous smile, he leaned the broom down and wedged it in place like Kevin had done earlier.

“Won't people be trapped down here when we’re outside, then?” David asked as he reached a hand up against the metal cellar door.

“We don't want unexpected guests,” Daniel explained cryptically. “I'll reopen it later, don't worry.

“Okay.” David quietly lifted the cellar door just enough to peek outside. His green eyes and the little pouf of red hair he'd messily gelled up were the only parts of him visible through the crack as he checked for movement in the alleyway.

“Coast is clear!” he hissed over his shoulder, “and you were right about the rain!” He hefted the heavy metal door open and ascended into the dark, steamy alley.

Out here, a pool of golden light from a far-off, flickering street lamp trickled between the buildings and caught the silvery steam. David stepped out, disturbing the writhing fog with his scuffed shoes.

Daniel followed a moment later, taking stock of the space between buildings. The asphalt back here was black with the fallen rain, but the brick walls had mostly been spared. It was quiet back here, cool mist muffling his polished shoes crunching on gravel. It felt private. Solitary. Almost... romantic.

He closed the cellar doors one, and then the other. The hinges squeaked, and the painted metal fell together with a loud click. It silenced the band, the chatter, the clinking glass, the tapping feet, leaving them alone together in the stillness.

“It's a nice night.” He spoke barely above a whisper; he didn't have to speak any louder.

“Summer’s almost here,” David agreed.

And it was. A soft breeze, cool but not cold, ruffled their hair. Daniel still stood with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows with the cuffs unbuttoned, black folds straining around lean muscle.

“Look up,” he instructed with a flick of his gaze.

David lifted his chin and realized what Daniel had meant. A patch of clear sky opened between the buildings above them, sparkling with a tapestry of stars.

David put his hand on the rough brick to steady himself.

“Oh _gosh_ ,” he gasped, taking a step further out into the open to marvel at the beautiful sight.

“The rain washes away the smoke in the city air, and we are left with a beautiful night,” Daniel explained, still hanging back in the shadows.

“I used to know all of the constellations like old friends,” David said, smiling vacantly up at the sky. “I could find my way when I lived on a farm out in the country.”

“My father loved the stars,” Daniel spoke, his eyes still on David. “He was a preacher’s boy, moved up here to a sinner’s city to find his fortune saving souls. But he still loved the stars. Said you could learn from their celestial example.” He smirked. “And then his only son was born under a red moon.”

“A blood moon?” David asked, turning in place to face him. He jumped; Daniel stood much closer than he’d expected. “What can you learn from a blood moon?”

Daniel pointed up at the sky, and David missed the way Daniel frowned, and then smiled again.

“Nothing good,” he assured David. He took a step away from David and to the side, his hand dipping into the V of his vest.

“That can't be true,” David laughed, looking over at him again.

Daniel quickly pulled his hand back out and straightened his purple tie.

David continued. “ _You_ were born on a blood moon, so I bet they're a sign that the people born beneath them will be confident and well-liked. Steel in their blood or something,” he offered, sounding matter-of-fact.

Daniel's stoic demeanor faltered. But he didn't look sad or angry or scared; he leaned away, unsettled.

And after a fraction of a second, he switched back into his signature half-lidded smile.

“Well then,” he laughed, “thank you. You're quite the charmer when you want to be.”

David blushed. “Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't want to, I mean, I'm not trying to charm you,” he shuffled awkwardly.

“You weren't?”

“No, I was being honest,” David frowned. “I don't know very much about charming people, I'm very sorry--”

Daniel cut him off with a chuckle, but when David looked at his eyes, they were sad.

“I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?” he asked, his head cocked in worried confusion like a puppy.

Daniel shook his head. “You're very honest, aren't you?”

“Never been good at lying,” David shrugged. “I'm not clever enough to lie. I never wanted to be, or... had to be,” he said carefully. “Being undercover like this is the hardest thing I've ever done.”

“You're not the least convincing undercover cop I've seen.” Daniel shook his head.

“But you're a very convincing speakeasy regular!” David beamed at him. “You really know all about the culture and the ins and outs!”

Daniel’s smile faded away. “Well, you know what they say. Strict parents make good liars.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I thought it was, the best lies have a hint of truth?”

“That's also good to remember.” Daniel paced back towards the speakeasy, underneath the thin lip of the roof.

David held out an apologetic hand. “I'm sorry, you brought me out here to talk about something and I keep bringing up bad memories or something. What did you want to talk about? The case?”

Daniel took his hand for a second and squeezed it, then let it drop. “A bit,” he admitted. “But there's also another sensitive matter that has come to my attention.”

“Are you in trouble?” David hissed, glancing up and down the alley. “As you know, I'm police, I can help!”

“I'm not the one who is in any sort of trouble,” he muttered, pushing up his sleeves one more time.

David gave a sigh of relief, and looked back up at the sky. “That's good.”

Daniel reached back into his vest, under his arm, as something bright shot across the sliver of shimmering sky.

“Oh wow!” David exclaimed, pointing. “A shooting star! What does that one mean?” He glanced over at Daniel.

The private eye quickly and calmly clasped both hands in the small of his back. “It's for making a wish, of course.”

“Oh! I know just what to wish for,” he muttered happily.

“Don't tell me, or it won't come true,” Daniel soothed. “Close your eyes.”

David smiled softly, his shoulders relaxed and his face turned up towards the silvery starlight.

He caught the dim golden light from the street lamp like a tiny, warm sun. To Daniel, in that frozen second, he looked celestial. Angelic, even. And he stood close enough for Daniel to reach out and touch, but as far away from him as divinity.

Daniel produced something from behind his back. Something he'd had tucked up against his side, a something that was shiny and sharp and silver. It flashed like a cruel mockery of the shooting star above, but with none of the whimsical warmth. He held it down by his left side, his grip firm.

Slowly, he lifted his right hand towards David. His eyes glimmered cold and pale, white teeth bared in a grimace.

“Okay,” David nodded, and opened his eyes. He'd made his earnest, hopeful wish.

Daniel hesitated.

And in that split second of indecision, David turned. He took one slow step towards Daniel, staring straight into his eyes with his brow and jaw tense with nervousness.

Absently focused on his task, he grasped for Daniel’s shirt and caught his collar in one hand and his shoulder in the other.

He pulled. He leaned in close, closer, too close, filling the space between them until their chests lay flush.

Daniel felt his shoulder blades and then his head press against the bricks. He was pinned.

And then, he dumbly realized that David’s soft lips had settled neatly against his own.

Something like sparks prickled in his brain. He blinked, stunned, as David pulled away with a quiet smack, his breath tickling Daniel’s cheek.

He frowned, pulled away. He let go of Daniel's shirt and looked down in shame.

Down towards the knife, still in Daniel’s grasp.

A burst of shocked fear rattled David's brain, and he jumped without thinking and slapped the blade away from himself.

It clattered against the asphalt loudly enough to startle them both. David's eyes were wide, horrified.

He pulled away, staring down at the knife. Daniel remained frozen in place, his expression vacant.

“Oh my gosh,” David finally whispered, his voice pitched up with fright. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Daniel blinked in even more shock, if that was possible.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” David continued, shaking, “I'm so sorry I scared you like that, it was so forward of me to just-- you have every right to defend yourself, I have no excuse, I just thought, with the way you had--”

This time, Daniel didn't hesitate. As David rambled away with nerves and guilt, Daniel dig his fingers into David's lapels and, using his body weight and the element of surprise, pivoted and shoved David up against the brick. In an instant, he was on David - pinning him in place with a bruising kiss.

David squeaked and went silent, parting his lips to return the gesture. After a moment of experimental movements, he lifted his shaking arms and slid them around Daniel's neck, tangling his fingers in the back of Daniel’s short, soft hair.

Daniel made a noise not unlike a growl and sucked David’s lower lip into his mouth, reaching up to cup his jaw with a whisper of leather on skin. He nibbled, then pulled back, releasing David’s lip with a quick gasp.

“Oh,” David said stupidly, half a smile spreading across his face.

He threaded his fingers through Daniel’s hair and kissed him, quickly and gently, and then again.

Daniel slid his hands over David's throat, his jawline, his hot, wet cheeks.

David sniffled, the tears in his eyes and his pearly grin glowing under the starry sky like Daniel’s very own moon and stars.

“I thought you,” David sobbed, “you didn't, you didn't...”

Daniel shushed him, kissing away his tears, brushing them aside with gloved thumbs.

They stood with foreheads and noses and bodies pressed together. David gulped down air as he tried to calm himself, grateful for Daniel’s support. He finally quieted, his breathing slowing to a calm sigh against Daniel’s skin.

“David,” Daniel finally spoke.

David lifted his head, gazing at Daniel with a certain reverence, hanging on his every word.

“I should go,” he told David. “Stay safe without me.”

David clung to his jacket, tucked his face into Daniel’s shoulder. “I don't want you to go,” he whispered.

Daniel wrapped him in another warm embrace. “I know.” He pulled away, and David let him go.

The air was too cold now, after being pressed against Daniel’s solid warmth. David shivered.

Daniel bent and picked up his blade again, dangled it between two fingers. “It's a strange night. Be vigilant,” he said by way of warning, not looking David in the eyes.

David laughed. “You know, everyone's been saying that today. It's like they think I'm going to get attacked or something. Like the Prophet is going to show up just to kill me. It's not like I have any good leads, I don't own a speakeasy, I barely know what I'm doing! Sure I'm police, but otherwise I'm just some guy,” he murmured, scratching his chin. “There's no way the Prophet cares about me.”

Daniel tucked the knife back into his vest. “No, I suppose not,” he shrugged. “That would be absurd.”

“A little!” David beamed. “You would keep me safe though, right?”

Daniel didn't answer, staring blankly into the stars reflected in a black puddle. His lips were pressed tightly together.

“Go home, David,” he said. “I'll be seeing you around.” He sounded serious now, tired. Speakeasies were a place for recreation and enjoyment, but that was over now.

The golden light flickered far away and between the buildings. Daniel stepped off towards the cellar door.

“I'll contact you by post,” he said over his shoulder, and bent to pull open the door. He stepped down, and before he was swallowed by darkness, he muttered, “this went differently than expected-” and the door dully clanged shut.

David contained himself for several moments before he quietly jumped and punched the air. He landed with a soft clatter of rubber sole on concrete, then clapped his hands to his burning cheeks.

“Oh my _gosh_ ,” he hissed, sounding dazed and out of breath. “I have _got_ to tell Gwen about this! I...I think I have a boyfriend!”

He darted excitedly down the alleyway towards the cross street and turned onto the sidewalk when the alleyway opened up into urban sprawl. He glanced both ways down the street. His movements suddenly slowed, hands shoved into his pockets, head down. It was a weird night, and out in the open, he had to be more cautious. He turned down the street Gwen had parked on and took his time making his way the half block back. It was easy to stick to the shadows here where the road became strangely dark.

His shoes crunched on glass as he stepped beneath a dark street lamp. Frowning, he looked up.

Two bullet holes had punched through the flimsy metal and popped the bulb like a glass balloon. He frowned, and crossed the street to look at the next light down. More glass, another bullethole.

This was intentional.

The entire half of this block and the one around the corner - where the alley behind Kevin’s came out - were pitch black.

Which was strange, David thought.

He made a mental note of it and continued creeping down the sidewalk, around parked cars and across the street a few more times to draw out any attackers.

There, in the dark road, was the parked police car. David wove his way over without incident.

He touched the door handle with a spark of surprise. After all of that, nothing. He was safe.

He whipped open the door with a huge smile on his face, stepping into the car.

“Gwen,” he squeaked, “you are never gonna believe--”

He froze, one leg in the car.

The driver’s seat was empty.

Gwen was gone.

\---

Jen watched Daniel thread through the crowd like a needle through flesh: direct, and perhaps painfully, but quickly. The cop trailed behind him closely enough to touch.

She gave the band the signal - a little whirl of her finger in the air - which meant they should repeat a few bars while she got a glass of water, or something harder. From her elevation on the short stage, she easily found Kevin trying to blend in by the table closest to the bar.

She jumped down from the side of the stage closest to the stairs and made her way around the outside of the room. She appeared at Kevin’s elbow, her smile faintly predatory.

He swirled a glass of wine, staring into it with unfocused eyes. He jumped when Jen touched his arm.

“Hey, Kevin, I need you to do a little dirty work for me tonight,” she drawled with a tawdry smile. She winked and swiped the glass out of his hands.

He clasped his hands together in surprise. “Oh, uh, I've only got like half yet,” he grumbled just over the music. His eyebrows rose to try to join the hairline.

“That's fine, just leave it with the usual bird, thanks!” Jen waved his concerns away. She tipped the glass towards him in a friendly toast, and then tipped the wine back in one long gulp. When she'd drained the glass, she set it down with a clunk on the lacquered table and a theatrical “ahh” of satisfaction.

They both stood for another few seconds, Jen leaning heavily on the table and Kevin still looking down at his empty hands. No words passed between them. Kevin tapped his fingertips together. Jen checked her nails.

“So why are you still here?” Jen laughed, but her eyes glinted with danger.

“Oh,” Kevin blinked, and pushed away from the table. He hurried towards the stairway door and disappeared through it, leaving Jen with his empty glass.

Jen lifted it by the rim, letting it dangle from her long fingers. Slowly, her hips swaying as she threaded the space between patrons, she made her way to the bar.

“I’ll take some of that Goodfellow guy’s cognac,” she chirped, sliding the glass over the polished wood and straight into the bartender’s hands. She gave him a wink. “Just put it on his tab.”

\---

Gwen watched a figure slink across the road. He was hunched, head down, holding something protectively against his stomach and failing to look inconspicuous. He had a box cradled in both hands, and he checked right and left and right again as he half-jogged between cars.

He tripped over one of his feet, stumbled, and danced a little in place as he glanced around furiously. Satisfied that nobody had seen, he bounced impatiently from foot to foot and then set off again.

Gwen pressed her back to the seat and froze as he darted past, watching for a few more moments in her car mirrors until he turned again and ducked out of sight.

Never once could she make out the man’s face, but she would put money on that being Kevin.

She quickly opened the car door. The hinge creaked as she pushed it closed, and the latch made a clunk as it clamped shut.

“Shh!” she jumped, shushing her car. She turned towards the hearse first, which hadn't moved, and then down the dark road.

She waited a long beat, eyes frozen on the spot Kevin had disappeared.

When nothing happened, she realized how she must look; a dark shape hunched over the driver’s side of a dark car, stooped in the middle of the steaming road.

She straightened up and tiptoed around to the sidewalk. Her feet sounded much too loud on the wet concrete. After a few unwieldy, too-cautious steps that made her look like she was walking on injured feet, she thought to hell with it! and tucked her hand up under her arm where her gun was holstered.

She set her jaw, her thumb on the safety. If it was a trap, she was ready to face it.

Now tapping gently down towards the Blue Peacock in much the same way she had followed Kevin there last time, she noticed this road was much darker than before. It made it even easier to pick her way from shadow to shadow despite the clear, starry sky above her.

A streak of silver flashed across the sky. Gwen looked up at the shooting star until it faded to a scar of red in her vision.

She had glanced up beneath one of the unlit streetlights. Immediately she saw the bullet hole, the broken bulb.

She remembered the hearse, hidden away in a dark alley. How the last speakeasy owner had conveniently gone missing. How Kevin frequented the Blue Peacock enough to know Theodore.

How Kevin had guns come through his pawn shop, and unsavory customers, and money. How easy it would be to shoot out a few lights every day until the whole street would be dark.

How simple it would be to wait until the basement emptied and pull the hearse around, black on black, to load it, to disappear into the night. Maybe to wherever Theodore had gone. Perhaps to meet him there.

This could be her one chance to find out what was going on.

Steeling her resolve, she hefted the firearm out of the holster and made sure the safety was on. She crept forward, the muzzle pointed just in front of her feet. The heavy colt cooled quickly in the night air.

Fog flickering around her shoes, she turned the corner and peered down the block.

The lights down this street were intact but dim, yellow pools of light zigzagging down the block as far as the eye could see.

The front of the Blue Peacock sat on the next corner on a strange diagonal street. It cut over halfway through the city block, leaving the restaurant to occupy a strange triangular slice of land. A lamp sat on the tip of this triangle, illuminating blue overhangs and grey stone and metallic bird sculpture with a warm, golden glow.

It did not, however, illuminate the whereabouts of Kevin.

She turned to the metal bird, the waterfall of silver tail feathers now woven with the start of a thick ivy vine. The green leaves were sickly under the yellow light, tangled into the base of the broad, flat, metal plates with their wiry filigree.

A little box, maybe four inches cube, sat tucked under the tail. And something rectangular poked up on top. Gwen stepped closer but couldn't make it out.

As she leaned in, a rush of footsteps clicked a ways behind her and faded across the road. Gwen spun, gun pointed at chest level, but caught only a flicker of movement in the darkness. A vague shape stirring up the foggy spirits, and then, gone.

“Kevin?” Gwen called after them, voice shaky.

But nobody answered.

Gwen froze for a full minute, her finger pressing the side of the trigger until it ached. Her heart pounded. She scowled. Another minute passed, and the footsteps did not return. Still wary, she let the gun down and pointed it at the ground again. Straightening, she turned her back to the alley and waited, listening.

When nothing happened for another minute, she let herself breathe again. Slowly, she crept closer to the drop site.

On top of the box sitting under the bird, someone had stuck a little rectangle with a pattern on it, and a black vertical line.

A playing card.

Gwen lowered her gun to pick it up from the box, flipped it over. The queen of clubs.

Had Kevin put this here? What did this mean? She flipped it over a few times, confused. Other than the line on the back, it looked like any well-worn card.

Gwen tucked it into her front pocket against the pair of balled up handkerchiefs.

She knew the box was for Jen, and by extension, her. She took a knee and put her hand on the lid. It was fairly light and rattled when she picked it up.

She brought it a few steps back under the light, and pulled it open. Inside, she found a healthy handful of pills beside a little tin of white powder. She tipped it towards the light and reached inside, intently counting the tablets.

This time, she didn't hear the footsteps.

“Gwen?”

She whirled around, still holding her gun.

And came face to face with the muzzle of a colt, and behind it, a horrified, blinking David.

Gwen lowered her weapon and tucked the box under her arm.

“Gwen,” he said again, “what is that?”

The realization hit Gwen like a truck. What she looked like. What she'd gotten herself into.

She was a new cop. She had made one friend in her time on the force, and he believed in the goodness of the law. Idolized the police commissioner, too. Wanted to be just like him. A man she’d embarrassed in front of the whole city. Challenged, even, on how things were thought about and done.

And now she was holding enough cocaine and barbiturates to start her own drug store.

“It's,” Gwen shuffled, still reeling, “not what it looks like.”

“What's in that box, Gwen?” David asked again, his voice pained and thin. He kept the gun pointed at Gwen’s shoulder, his thumb firmly holding the safety.

“David,” she tried again, stepping towards him

“Don't!” he bit out, and suddenly, huge tears were rolling down his face.

“It's medicine,” Gwen said. And then, a little louder, “it's why I was okay this morning."

David sniffed. Another tear rolled down his cheek and dropped off of his chin. “Why are you hiding it then? Why did you have to sneak off while I was gone? You get medicine at a pharmacy, Gwen, not at an old crime scene in the middle of the night!”

Gwen opened her mouth, closed it again. There was nothing to say.

David, his voice cracking, asked, “is it you, Gwen? Are you her?” He lowered his gun to her knees, as if it pained him to point it at his friends. His knobbly knees knocked together. “You're strong enough, you're... keeping secrets!”

Gwen blinked, dumbfounded. “David,” she said again, eyebrows raised. “It's a drug drop, it's not--”

“Oh god!” David wailed, tears streaming down his face again. “You're picking up drugs? Gwen, I, I...”

She tried to shush him, still feeling vulnerable in a pool of light surrounded by a sea of darkness. Something made her skin prickle like they were being watched. “Like I said, it's why I was doing better today, David, shh--”

“You're _using_ them?” David gasped, understanding sinking in. His eyes went huge. “Gwen that's, you can't,” he squeaked, his voice thick with tears.

Gwen floundered. It was really that simple. She was breaking so many laws, regardless of her reason for doing it.

They both stood for a moment, Gwen staring at David’s wet, red, betrayed eyes. They swirled with hurt and shock and simmering rage and disbelief in equal parts, because Gwen had the audacity to be angry at _him_.

He shook his head again, scared but mostly confused. Didn't she know she was breaking the law? Did she think she was above it? The same law she swore to uphold, the same as him?

“Gwen,” he said softly, weakly. “I need you to put that down.”

“David!” she hissed, eyeing the gun warily as David's hand shook.

His face had gone pale.

“Officer Gwendolyn Maddox,” he sniffed, taking one hand away from the gun to take something from the belt at the small of his back. “I- I'm sorry, but I'm forced to place you under arrest for purchase and possession of... of...” his voice cracked, more tears flooding out of his eyes and down his cheeks. “Please, just, come quietly.” He produced a set of handcuffs.

Gwen stood like a statue, her jaw going slack. She looked blank, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Her gun - loaded, the safety still on - clattered against the cement. Her eyes flicked left, right, left again, her brain going quickly nowhere.

“I don't,” David sobbed, “I don't want to do this, Gwen, please just... let me put these on you, we can talk in the car...” He stepped closer.

She didn't resist as he took the box out from under her arm and put one cuff on her right wrist, then stepped behind her to gently click on the left.

He continued sniffling as he steered her, gun tucked into the back of his belt. He'd holstered his own back under his arm, and the box - which he'd peered inside and sobbed into - tucked into the crook of his elbow.

By the time the reached the car, his tears had become terrible, slimy things, his eyes red and puffy. He was so thirsty, and so betrayed.

Neither of them exchanged a word as David drove a silent Gwen, who sat in the back seat like a captive statue, to the station.

\---

David stared out the one window in the whole station, wanting to be anywhere but here. He’d given statements, filled out paperwork, and been interviewed with surprising haste.

He had glossed over their exact whereabouts with the explanation “we were following a lead,” but he hadn't lied.

Apparently Gwen wasn't talking. She had agreed to be put in a holding cell with no more than a nod, and sat in shock on the cold metal bench. She wouldn't tell anyone who her dealer was, or how she'd been in contact with them, or why she'd been found two blocks away from their lead at an old crime scene. So they had turned to David.

He'd been inconsolable the entire time. He'd refused food and coffee, his stomach so knotted he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it down. The senior officers had finally returned him to his desk, where he sat in silence, picking at a chip in the paint. He sniffled every once in a while, eyes unfocused.

Had he done the right thing? He'd upheld the law. Gwen had betrayed him, his trust.

...But hadn't he betrayed hers as well? Was this worth it?

The station door slammed open so hard it sounded like it might bounce out of its hinges. David jumped.

“Davey!” Campbell boomed, causing one of the senior officers to startle awake where he'd been dozing at his desk and upend his mostly empty coffee mug.

David stood and snapped up a smart salute as his nose dripped snot.

Campbell bustled in, arms open wide. He beckoned David closer.

David dropped the salute and took two quick steps, and collapsed into Campbell’s embrace. His sobs started anew, horrible and sticky. Campbell ushered him into an interview room with a fatherly pat on the back.

“This must have been so hard for you, David,” he spoke, closing the door behind him.

David nodded, sniffling behind his hands.

“I'm proud of you,” Campbell continued. “Our jobs rely so heavily on public perception. We must be role models for the public, or we shouldn't uphold the law. You did the right thing.”

A speck of anger flared up in David for just an instant. It wasn't fair! The law wasn't fair!!

He banged his palms against the table, teeth gritted.

The law did its best. It wasn't perfect, but it protected everyone, treated everything the same.

Even when it wasn't.

He deflated. “Owie,” he whined, tipping his head down.

Campbell patted his shoulder. “I'm sorry but I have to ask, David, because Gwen isn't telling us anything. Were the two of you doing anything illegal tonight, David?” He leaned in, his eyes narrowed.

“We were following a lead,” David repeated his story from before. “I told her to wait outside because I had an in, and,” he turned his head away in shame. “I'm just as bad as her, commissioner. You should arrest me too, I'm--”

“Whoa, whoa!” Campbell shouted. “David, I need you to stop being so emotional and think about this objectively! Now, yes or no, did you do something illegal last night?”

“Yes.” David hung his head.

“Did you do it in an effort to stop a larger crime from happening, or to make progress in bringing a culprit to justice?” Campbell asked, idly fixing his cufflink.

“Yes, of course,” David looked up, nodding rapidly.

“And,” Campbell smiled gently, “was Gwen also pursuing a lead by picking up these drugs from a drop spot?”

David hesitated.

He sighed. “No,” he muttered, “I don't think she was. If she was, she never told me.”

“And you also said,” Campbell scratched his cheek, “that she admitted to being under the influence while not only on duty, but also in my station, correct?”

“She did, yes,” David said a little more easily now, but then continued. “But how is that any different from - and I mean no disrespect, sir - how is that any different from drinking alcohol in the station?”

Campbell leaned back in his seat and smiled. “I have a prescription,” he said simply.

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a folded paper, stamped and written in a nearly illegible hand. The signature at the bottom was accompanied by the Hippocratic oath, and something in Hebrew script. It looked needlessly official.

David stared, so perplexed he'd stopped crying. “You keep that with you?”

“It has come in handy more than once,” Campbell shrugged. “Now, let me say on the record that you showed great moral fortitude and personal strength tonight. It's no secret that the police of this city have a history of small-time corruption. I believe you stamped one out before it had the chance to spread. And so,” he produced a folder and slapped it on the table, “I know you have been instrumental in the many recent leads on the Prophet case. I want to offer you this.”

David flipped the folder open and scanned the paperwork, the legal document. It opened with jargon, his name, the date, and ended with a line for a signature.

“What is it?”

Campbell laughed. “A promotion to a detective position, Davey. Isn't that what you've always wanted?”

David read it over again. This one seemed more confusing than his last promotion, which he'd had Gwen...

“Are you comforting me, for, after,” he stammered, setting the paper back down on the metal table. He didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

“I'm giving a promotion to a good cop who deserves it.” Campbell took a pen from his pocket and set it on the paper, just above the signature line. “If you accept, I will give you two extra weeks of vacation time, starting today, to... deal with this. I know it isn't easy to lose a second partner in just a few months, especially not like this. I want you focused on the case when you come back, okay?”

Campbell outstretched a large, worn hand, the knuckles crossed with old scars. He put his palm over David's much thinner hand. It was warm, rough. It made David realize how much Campbell had done in his career, how much he'd seen.

“Are you going to tell the press?” David asked.

Campbell took his hand back. “I'll keep it quiet as long as I can, if that will help you spring back more easily.”

His expression was surprisingly soft.

“This can't be easy for you either,” David guessed.

“Losing any officer, no matter the circumstances...” he shook his head. “It hurts every time.”

David considered the paper for another long moment.

He grasped the pen, and in a flourish, signed in neat, straight-backed capital letters. He gave a weak smile, handing Campbell the form.

Campbell took it and gave David a pat on his shoulder.

“Well kid,” he hummed, “you're a full fledged gumshoe, just like that. Now go get some rest, you look like death.”

David nodded, emotions churning his gut.

\---

Daniel appeared at the mouth of the dark street, watching as David helped his partner - who appeared to be handcuffed - into the back of their cop car.

Daniel drummed his knuckles against the brick, scowling as the car slowly pulled away.

For a moment, he allowed himself to slip.

He snarled, punched the wall with the side of his hand. And just like that, he was calm again, his gloved hands going to his tie and carefully straightening it back to perfection. He smoothed his hands over his sleeves a few times, dusted his gloves by rubbing his palms together.

He calmly made his way across the street with his back straight and head held high, following a trail of broken glass and darkness to the mouth of an alley.

He turned, his foot knocking over a broken bottle. It clinked against the asphalt.

Still perfectly impassive, he reached a hand into his vest and held the grip of his blade, just in case. He waded through a bit of trash, giving a quick glance left and right.

It took a minute for his eyes to adjust, to see the parked car back here. As he stared, the engine rumbled to life, headlights flaring on. Daniel held up a hand to shield his eyes and continued his calm beeline for the passenger side.

He popped the door open and slid in. The minute he closed it, he let his mouth curve down in a frown. He reached under the seat without looking and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes. He tapped the box against his palm a few times and then nearly ripped it apart to get one cigarette out.

He stuck the orange filter between his lips and let it dangle. Then, he offered the box to his driver.

A slender hand reached over silently, the leather driving gloves, light pink, flexing as the cigarette fit nicely between her pointer and middle fingers

“So,” came a lazy female voice.

Daniel popped open the glove compartment and moved an unfolded death certificate, a diploma for a university class, a compact, a handful of dry, crunchy rose petals.

A lighter clicked beside him, the flame casting a ghostly light in the cabin of the vehicle.

“You didn't bag your boyfriend on the first date?” Jen laughed. “Losing your touch?”

Daniel leaned over, stuck the end of his cigarette into the flame, and drew until the tip glowed like an ember. He glared up at her, the fire catching in his awful icy eyes.

“So, who got cold feet? You, or him?” She lit her cigarette and closed the lighter with a click.

Daniel exhaled a smooth stream of smoke. “He disarmed me,” he said coolly, watching the strings of dusty white for dancing behind the windshield. “That's all.”

“So you're made?” Jen pouted. She took a dainty puff from her cigarette. “Just when things were finally getting interesting, some rookie kid-”

“No,” Daniel said, and now it was his turn to chuckle. “He apologized.”

Jen, who had been drawing in another slow breath of smoke, choked. She laughed, and coughed, tears running streaks through her makeup. “Are you serious?” she wheezed. “Fuck, I love this kid.”

She rolled down her window just enough to toss the cigarette out and vent some of the smoke as Daniel billowed like a chimney.

He scrubbed at his forehead, perplexed.

“It's just a minor setback,” he grumbled.

“He must be... very disarming,” Jen smiled knowingly at him.

Daniel didn't answer, but he scowled.

Jen grabbed the steering wheel and stepped on the gas. “Well at least there's no real reason for caution then,” she muttered, amused. The vehicle lumbered over some trash and out into the street.

“Okay, mister Rolls-Royce, I'll drop you off around the corner then, put this back at work. Swing by in ten to get me.”

Daniel sighed. He did the same as Jen, rolling down his window and tossing away the half-spent cigarette.

It flashed with a brilliant light as it splashed against the pavement, and in a heartbeat, went out. It lit up the vehicle for an instant as it passed.

It was long, boxy, black trimmed in chrome.

A hearse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On to act 2!


	7. With a little derring-do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first chapter of act II: An apple a day!
> 
> In this one: a storm brews, a wild card is revealed, a confession is made, dark secrets bubble to the surface.
> 
> And the Prophet grows impatient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one really got away from me but hey! If you like speakeasies and too many emotions, this chapter is for you! If you like the author finally writing the scene for an incredibly specific tag, you're in the right place! This is your only spice warning; this chapter gets wild.
> 
> I'm also dedicating this chapter to Naar (schweenaar on tumblr) who drew amazing fanart so long ago and I forgot to give them a shoutout for their incredible art and the smile they put on my face!!
> 
> Next, I want to remind everyone that I'm halfway moved to my twitter as my main update platform and public whining site. Find me @pyreclaws over there if you like fic updates and dumb rts!
> 
> Lastly, the title this time is from Fear & Delight by the Correspondents! It was recommended to me by creabo and fits way too well. I'll be putting the fully completed itryd playlist on Spotify by the time the next chapter is up ~~unless I forget~~ because I'm very happy with it, and I hope you can listen while guessing what's going to happen next!
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you have a new year that's exciting, but not too exciting!

David stared out his bathroom window. He’d cracked it open, and it whistled as the wind whisked away the steam trickling from his shower.

Spring was dying, but it wouldn't go peacefully. Thunder rumbled, lightning slicing through the dark, grey dawn.

He stood nude in front of his sink, shivering, water dripping in rivulets onto the tile floor. Slowly, the mirror cleared. He'd swiped his hair back in the spray and it hung, stringy and long on top, burgundy in the dim light.

Day six. He hadn't left his apartment other than to get his mail. The envelopes sat in a pile, unopened. He didn't dare look through them. He might have to think.

He shivered, stubbornly staring at himself. An exhausted young man stared back, eyes red, dark circles sunken, cheekbones high and thin.

Finally, he picked up a towel from the bar. He scrubbed it over his hair, his face, and wrapped it around himself.

His ribs stuck out a little more than before. His hips jutted against the thin towel.

He pushed his way out of the small bathroom and into his bedroom as rain began pinging off of the window panes.

The wallet still sat on his bedside table, among a couple almost empty mason jars of water and a bottle of sleeping pills. He'd propped the ace of clubs up against the bottle, hoping the answer would come to him in his sleep.

His sheets were pushed to one side of his patchy mattress, his duvet kicked to the footboard. He started to tidy up with a deep sigh, letting the towel flop off of his thin chest and tumble onto the floor.

Once he'd tucked the edges of the sheets under the mattress and spread the duvet, he glanced around the room. The lamplight was growing dull; he'd have to replace the bulb soon. Dirty clothes were tossed onto a chair, messy but with some effort to stay clean.

David took a folded union suit from his dresser - plain, white, boring - and stepped into it, shrugging on the short sleeves. His long fingers gracefully buttoned the front up without looking.

He ran out of buttonholes on the top button and craned his neck to look down.

He'd missed one.

With a sigh, he undid all of his old work and started fresh, paying attention this time and straightening out the wrinkles.

He picked up the towel and ran it through his hair again. The sides and back were dry, the longer bit on top still damp and catching in his eyelashes. He slicked it back with a palm.

He brought the towel back into the bathroom and slung it over the shower curtain bar to dry. 

Now he had to make himself breakfast. Maybe an egg and toast, and coffee.

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye. He stared into the mirror again.

That hairstyle - it was Daniel’s.

Now wasn't the time to think about Daniel, he scolded himself. His stomach was wrapped in knots, guilt trapping him in his room.

Daniel was going to send him mail, he remembered with a jolt. He grimaced at his own forgetfulness.

He skittered through his bedroom and out into the main area, rattling his nearly bare bookshelf as he rushed to the table. His bare feet slapped on the floor, damp hands snatching up the envelopes.

Bill. Bill. Bingo.

The envelope was a cream color, the writing on it neat and small and in a confident hand. Seeing his own name in Daniel's studious writing didn't banish his guilty conscience, but it did distract it.

He pulled a butter knife from a drawer and popped open the red wax seal. It was ostentatious, perhaps, but the little apple he'd stamped it with was cute. He tugged out the stationary, which was a thick paper with a thin black line around the borders. Simple, but classy.

 _David Larson,_ it began.

David had to set it down for a moment, taking a deep breath. Now collected and prepared for whatever flattery Daniel could throw at him, he breathed out and read the next line.

_Or perhaps I should address you as Officer Larson of the New York Police Department? I can’t say it’s my favorite title._

_Which is why I must congratulate you on surpassing it at the time I am writing this._

_Welcome to the fold of investigators, Detective._

David gulped. He’d almost forgotten. But he could hear Daniel, quiet and proud and casual, speaking the words as he read them.

Detective. He could hear the flirty tone. _Detective._

He continued on, cheeks flushed and burning hot.

_First and foremost, I must offer my sincerest apologies for any fright I may have given you when last we spoke. I do hope this letter finds you well. Our liaison may have ended on a bit of a sour note, and I take full responsibility. I needed time to think._

_And think, I did. Yet the only thing that would come to mind was doing it over. A second chance._

_Needless to say, I’ll be around. Perhaps we could discuss your information over a cup of tea? Wednesday night. See you then._

_With great admiration,_

_Daniel J. Goodfellow_

David beamed. Daniel wanted to see him again! Daniel wasn’t angry after he had accidentally forced Daniel to defend himself!! Such a gentleman!

And the tea - David reread that line, feeling particularly brilliant that he’d understood the trickery Daniel had used - it meant “wet tea shop.” He laughed. Daniel would be back in their usual spot, he realized. Tonight.

He felt very lucky that he’d opened this in time. Maybe he could ask Daniel what to do about Gwen. He seemed like the kind of person who would have advice.

And he would see Daniel again. After... everything.

That night had been so strange and long and ominous and... horrible, that the thought of returning to this bit of normalcy was grounding. Weird and unexpected, perhaps, that a speakeasy could feel like routine, but grounding.

Mistake or no, he’d already made it. This regret wouldn’t help. He needed to move forward and solve this.

All of this.

He’d been given time, and he realized now that he’d been wasting it. He needed to get in front of this, brace for it. He could be finding Jasper or looking for clues.

And he’d been laying in bed avoiding it all in fear.

Daniel - he was a little afraid of him too. Afraid of his cold eyes and his knife and the way he seemed to know more about David than David did. But it was exhilarating.

He left Daniel’s letter open on the table, struck with a jolt of determination.

He’d messed up. Time to put in the work to fix it.

He made a silent vow to use every minute of the next eight days. To stop a killer frightening a city, to find what happened to his friend and mentor, to talk to Daniel and get help, to get Gwen out of the jail cell he’d put her in and understand why she would hide things from him in the first place.

David walked over to his little bookshelf and pulled out his favorite record. He needed his smile. It would be all day before he could see Daniel, and the guilt and nerves still gnawed at him behind the newfound determination.

Dancing helped. And he could practice, for his cover. For Daniel. For the one thing keeping him focused through the sorrow that, even now, threatened to creep back in and make him curl back under his covers and let the storm rage out there without him.

A clap of thunder rumbled through the concrete walls and foundation, rain plinking on his kitchen window.

He took the record from its sleeve.

Something hit his foot. He held out the record and glanced down past his union suit and at his bare feet.

Sitting just in front of him, face down where it had fallen, was a playing card.

David’s eyes went wide.

On the back, a big capital G in thick black ink.

He looked at the record, and then the sleeve, and then the card. With a squint, he placed the record on the spindle of his victrola, and bent on one knee to pick up the card.

The ten of clubs.

He flipped it over a few times, studying both sides intently. It was obviously from the same deck as the ace of clubs Kevin had given him - and the same kind of deckas the one he’d used to win a hand of blackjack.

This wasn’t a coincidence. This second card - someone was sending him a message. Someone who knew where Jasper had gone.

Someone who had been inside his apartment between now and the last time he’d used the victrola.

He dropped the record sleeve. It fell to the rug with a clatter of thick paper. Still clutching the card between thumb and forefinger, he dashed to the front door and pulled at the knob.

It rattled. Locked.

Had it been unlocked this last week? He couldn’t remember.

But he remembered the open window in Jasper’s apartment. A possible exit, or entrance. He rushed over to his kitchen window. It slid up, a bit sticky but unlocked.

“Damn,” David hissed, hands shaking. He slammed it shut and threw the lock closed, then banged his fist against it a few more times to tighten it up. Next he took a loose rag from the sink and wedged it into the crack between front and back panes. If anyone tried to slide the window open without removing the rag, it would stick even harder.

He glanced around. The only other windows were the small one set high in the bathroom wall, and then the bedroom window.

David rushed into his messy bedroom again with the bed barely made and the towel dropped on the floor, and threw open the drapes.

Rain drummed on the glass so thick that it was hard to see across the street. Lightning flashed in the distance, vague pulses of white light against the grey smear of the sky.

The window was unlocked and, tucked against the windowsill, a three of clubs.

David threw a hand over his mouth in shock.

It was less than a foot from his bed. Whoever had done this, they had to have crawled in, and on, and over... his bed.

His pulse thrummed uncomfortably fast behind his ribs.

He kneeled on the mattress, feeling the springs shift under his weight. They creaked as he grasped the card, flipped it over.

The letter this time was a big E.

And on the front, just above the middle of the 3 clubs, a smudge of blood.

As he leaned back, a car took away from the curb outside. It disappeared into the downpour in a heartbeat, a dark shape with bright headlights like the eyes of a beast.

David pulled the shades. He took a deep breath, fear meeting disbelief. This was too bizarre. He was being watched, clearly. Followed, perhaps.

His home invaded.

He held up his two new cards, feeling like he’d been punched in the gut. He sat on the mattress, thin knees wobbling.

B-E-G? David listened for more squealing tires but only heard the pounding rain.

He wasn’t safe in here. But really, he wasn’t safe anywhere - and he’d been in here, unaware of anything, for a week.

He placed the new cards beside Jasper’s wallet on his side table, to join the ace. And with a resigned sigh, opened his dresser and took out a certain green vest with pine trees embroidered on the side.

\---

Kevin took a long drag from his cigarette as he leaned on his counter, making tallies on the back of a discarded receipt. He exhaled short puffs of bitter smoke, absentmindedly blowing rings as he considered the sudden uptick in demand that matched Master Goodfellow’s wine supply.

He’d bought three whole casks of wine from him already this month, and he’d managed to procure three more. Not to mention a second small cask of the fine cognac he said he’d recently inherited.

The bell above the door chimed, its sticky hinges opening with a squeal. Kevin jumped, stuffed the receipt into his pocket. Looked up.

A rather plain young man stepped into the shop, looking half-drowned and bored. Without a hint of acknowledgement towards Kevin, he slowly wandered into the first aisle.

Kevin noted his clean work pants, white button up shirt, all sopping from the rain. He wore gloves but no coat, and while he looked chilly, he was otherwise unremarkable in every way.

It seemed almost a practiced dullness, Kevin thought. His eyes followed the plain man as he walked slowly down the length of the shelves, occasionally lifting a teapot or a candlestick and turning it over in his black, gloved hands. He didn’t appear to be stealing anything - and besides, everything of value that could fit into a pocket was up in this glass case - but Kevin’s finely honed intuition itched at the back of his mind.

He looked over the muddy work shoes, tracking in dirt. The hair; short, dark brown, and slicked back with water. Glasses. No tie. Possibly left-handed, he thought, as the young man picked up a heavy pan with both hands and fumbled it into his left.

The man made it to the end of the row and straightened up. He reached up and flipped through a few pieces of clothing on the rack: a coat, some old pantyhose on the hanger beside it, a tie, a waistcoat. He pulled out a massive fur coat - a raccoon coat, they were called, though they weren’t always made from raccoon - which Kevin had bought from a different young man weeks ago. They were in style now, he guessed, especially among the young men in universities across the country.

This young man looked very happy to have found one. He took it off the hanger and slung it over his shoulders, trying it on. His back was to Kevin, but he’d put money on the kid having a smile plastered across his face.

“Hey kid,” Kevin greeted him, a lit cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth.

The man jumped and spun, looking guilty. “Just trying it on,” he muttered just loudly enough for Kevin to hear him as he shucked it off.

Kevin laughed. “Go right ahead, kid. No skin off my teeth.” He blew another puff of smoke and then stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray shoved up against his register. Both ashtray and register had price tags hanging off of them.

He brushed his eternally dirty hands on his pants and started towards the aisle.

“Need help with any of that?” Kevin grunted, rounding the corner. The young man carefully put the raccoon coat back on its hanger. “I’m just browsing, I was hoping for pants, but...” He pulled out a pair of slacks and stood behind it, illustrating the problem by holding out the waist and showing that his hips could fit in one of the leg holes.

Kevin snorted. “Yeah, bad luck there.”

“You don’t seem to have any waistcoats in my size either,” he sniffed, flipping through again.

“Yeah, you got a broad chest,” Kevin laughed. “Could I interest you in somethin’ else?”

“Anything interesting in the case?”

“Come and take a gander!” Kevin grinned. “I’ve got all sorts of jewelry. Rings, watches, necklaces, I even had this great pocket watch but it walked away a few weeks back,” Kevin recounted as he led the customer to the counter.

The young man trotted behind faithfully, hands clasped behind his back.

Kevin pointed down into the case. “I just got in those binoculars, they’re the collapsible kind, here--” he grunted. He took a key from his breast pocket. With a careful motion and a click he slid open the back of the case, lifting the little compact. He showed the man how to pull it open and reveal the lenses inside, and how it easily snapped shut.

Instead of taking the compact, the man pointed down into the case, tapping the glass with his middle and forefingers.

Because his ring finger was gone, all the way to the knuckle. Kevin could see now that the glove hid the effect at first glance, sewn to accommodate a missing finger.

“Where did you get those?” he asked, pointing straight down.

Kevin peered in. “The rings? Good eye, those were pawned by--”

“No, those,” he pointed again.

“What, the decorations? The dice and the cards?” Kevin lifted an eyebrow. “They’re not a full--are you a cop? I’m not selling those,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I’m a collector of dice,” the nine-fingered man explained with a smile. “Do you have any more?”

Kevin looked from the case to the man’s calm smile. “Uh, all my decorations are just from boxes of junk people bring in, it’s like, old hat pins and beads and knickknacks and I’ll pay like a quarter for the whole box and I got, what, five or so in the back closet. You want to dig through and tell me if I’ve got more, be my guest.”

The man stood a little straighter. “Should I just go back there?” he asked.

Kevin scratched his scruffy chin. “Huh, good point. Uh, you stay here for just a second, bud.” He tapped a finger on the case. “I’ll haul a couple out, be just a minute.” He locked the case again, then opened the till with a chime and dropped in the key. The drawer clanged shut, and Kevin smiled at the man knowingly - the key was their secret, now.

And the loud chime was Kevin’s way of finding out what the man wanted.

Kevin swept hurriedly into his back room with another glance over his shoulder. The man stared at the back wall, his expression tired at best.

Satisfied with his plan, he pulled open the heavy door. The little closet towered with junk he couldn’t fit on the shelves yet and boxes of clutter stacked on one another. He pulled the light on, watching the bare bulb flicker yellow, then hum to life.

Kevin grabbed the first box he saw and pulled it open. White tea candles, a coffee tin filled with nails and push pins and paperclips, some singed potholders, a new bar of soap in its box. He shook the whole thing, trying to judge if there were dice in the bottom. Kitchenware, or garageware, he decided, and set the box aside with a jingle. He turned to the next box.

The bell over the door chimed.

“Just a minute!” Kevin called towards the front of the store.

Only silence answered him.

He leaned backwards out of the closet and glanced into the store. The front was empty, the counter and register abandoned.

The nine-fingered man had left without a word?

Rude.

Kevin let the box of poker chips and books and spare phonograph parts fall back on top of the next box down with a clatter. Grumbling, he turned out the light again and kicked the first box inside just enough to close the door.

He shook his head as he gave the store a cursory glance, wondering what had been stolen this time. He walked down each aisle, pretty sure but not positive that everything was still in place.

The raccoon coat was still there, which surprised him. That man had seemed genuinely excited to find one in a pawn shop. After two quick passes through the store, he went to check the register. He knew he’d have heard it chime if the man had stolen anything out of the drawer - that had been the idea. Carefully, he pecked at the keys and opened it with the same metallic ding.

Just by looking, he was pretty sure all of the coins and bills were still inside.

And the little brass key he’d dropped in last still sat on top.

So what, then? He reached for the case, slapping at the keyhole.

Kevin sucked in a breath as his fingers found the slot, turned to the side. Unlocked.

He swore under his breath. This would have been the boldest thief he’d ever seen, except--

Nothing in the case was missing, Kevin realized with a cold wash of fear.

He stared down in shock at the three cards tucked behind the watches and rings as decoration. All of them, clubs, faded from black to blue. All of them marked with dark blood, still wet, smudged between the clubs on the front.

Kevin squatted down and peered through the underside of the glass shelf they sat on.

Sure enough, thick lines of black ink. Just like the other card. Just like the envelope with David’s name on it.

Kevin stood up slowly, mouth agape and eyes wide.

The nine-fingered man had left three more clues: a M, or perhaps a W, a P, and a rushed-looking T.

Kevin clambered around the counter and dashed to the front door, spinning right and left through a curtain of grey rain and a smattering of soaked people huddling huddling under umbrellas and overhangs.

The man with nine fingers was gone.

Kevin locked the door and flipped the sign to closed. He needed to get these to David right away, but where...? How?

\---

Max woke to a clap of thunder, his thin blanket halfway off his even thinner frame. He hissed in annoyance, scrunching up his piercing eyes. Wind whistled through the gaps in the windowpane and rain rattled against the grimy glass.

Three knocks sounded beneath the bare floor.

Max sat up. He grabbed the sack of clothes he'd been using as a pillow and held it to his chest, trying to hold tight to its fleeting body heat.

A section of worn wood floor shifted, and then hinged open, up and over. The trapdoor thudded dully with the sound of wood on wood.

A head poked up, nose smeared with dirt and a grin stretching from ear to ear.

“Hiya!” Nikki chirped, pulling herself up off of the ladder.

“Nikki,” Max groaned, “I'm sleeping, it’s after noon, what do you--”

“I have food!” she hissed excitedly, holding up a plate with half a sandwich and a few french fries piled together. “Mom made chicken salad! I made sure to save half!”

Max grabbed the plate and set it on the floor beside him. He lifted the top slice of bread and stared down into the mess of shredded chicken and chopped celery in sauce the way Gwen had once stared into pictures of a murder scene.

“What's all this fucking white shit?” he swore quietly, grabbing a fry instead and stuffing it into his mouth. He pulled a face but didn't comment on how bland they were.

“It's just mayonnaise, Max!” Nikki giggled under her breath.

He wrinkled his nose. “Looks like a disease waiting to happen.”

“Just try it!” she urged.

Max picked a piece of chicken out of the mixture and ate it slowly. He looked thoughtful as he chewed, and then mildly surprised. He shrugged down at the sandwich.

“It's fine,” he grunted.

Nikki scooted closer to the window, watching the storm rage outside.

“I hope the rain’s not too loud,” she muttered, barely turning her head away from the sight. “I don't really like sleeping because you can't do stuff when you're sleeping, but you can't do anything when it rains. So I like sleeping when it's raining.”

Max tried to sneakily lick the mayo off of his fingers as she spoke. “I sleep best when people leave me alone, actually.”

“Me too!” Nikki beamed at him. “Which is why I never want to sleep when my best friend is this close by!”

Max snuck a corner of the sandwich by ripping it off and hiding it with his hand, then stuffing it in his mouth and chewing fast when Nikki turned to watch a particularly dark cloud roll past. He swallowed, looking annoyed.

“Neil doesn't live that close by, he's all the way over in--”

“You're my best friend too, jerk!” she giggled quietly. “And Wolfy is my other-other best friend!”

“And those dumbass cops?” He quickly took a bite.

“My other-other-other best friend and my other-other--”

“Yeah, okay, shut up,” he groaned through a mouthful of bread. “I don't think that's how best friends work.”

“Oh yeah?” Nikki challenged him, drawing herself up to her full three feet of height, “then who’s your best friend?”

Max chewed for a long moment, considering his options. The silence was punctuated by tapping rain and the low roll of thunder. He slowed, swallowed, cleared his throat. Opened his mouth to answer, his expression first annoyed, then embarrassed, then mean, and back to annoyed.

He was saved by a shout from below.

“Nicollette!” Candace called from at least two floors down. “Where are you? You’d best not be off feeding your lunch to raccoons or something! It's time for your piano lesson!”

Max looked at the half-eaten sandwich and then to Nikki with a scowl. He tugged the plate closer and lifted the sandwich now, hunched over the plate like some sort of little food gremlin.

“I have to go, but,” Nikki beamed, digging in her pocket, “I found this on the sidewalk today!”

She brought out her fist and, when Max held out a palm, she dropped a nickel into it. He held it up, chewing as he made sure it wasn't too scratched up.

“How much more do you need?” she asked, tiptoeing towards the hatch and ladder.

“Eight dollars,” he said thickly, and swallowed. “And seventy three cents. About.”

Nikki pumped her fist in quiet celebration. “Okay, I'll come back for the plate later! Do you need more blankets or anything? I can steal one out of the laundry.

“I'm fine,” Max muttered, taking another bite.

“Okay, because you just look sort of chilly and I just wanted to make sure--”

“I said I'm fucking fine!” he hissed back.

Nikki giggled. “Okay Max, seeya!”

And with that, she reopened the hatch and slipped down the ladder.

Max heard her call to Candy and her footsteps pad down the thickly carpeted stairs. He set the sandwich down and hauled up the ladder, then closed the hatch.

He quickly tapped over to the back corner. He moved a cardboard box and nudged a broken radio with his foot, then kneeled and pried up a loose floorboard. In the hollow, he'd hidden a couple of wallets, one can of beans, a cloth pouch with a drawstring like the kind other kids held marbles in, and a few crumpled and folded pieces of paper. Max took out the pouch, which jingled. He pulled it open and dropped in the nickel and then reached in to grab a stubby pencil. Setting the bag aside for a moment, he picked up a couple of the papers: a newspaper clipping showing a bicycle from a store advertisement, and a bit of scrap paper with handwritten addition in a column down the back. Max added five more cents, and then looked at his total with a sigh.

Barely over half. It felt so near, and yet so far away.

He put the ad and ledger into the pouch with the coins and bills and pencil and pulled the string taut. It hid easily between the beans and the leather wallets.

This was all of it. The things under this floorboard, a few more nicked wallets tucked away among spare silverware and Christmas ornaments and dusty furniture, the clothes on his back and in his little bag. This was everything.

He replaced the floorboard with a quick squeak.

Thunder rumbled, and Max halfheartedly kicked the box over the patch of floor as he walked to the one window. He lifted the drapes just enough to peer out at the thick sheets of rain. It hammered down now in a grey film, making rivers down the roof and pouring into the street. Cars drifted by like cruise ships, their wake sending waves of mud over the curb.

A single newspaper, still somehow in a neat roll, floated down one side of the street until it caught in a storm drain. There, the water quickly shredded it down to a pulp.

Max glanced to his satchel with a grimace. Someone hadn't paid much mind to his work.

Even with such a foreboding headline.

“Prophet’s Silence: Calm Before the Storm?” Max had read, standing under a porch light.

He didn't know much about the case, but it seemed to him that the storm was already here.

\---

David shook the rain from his umbrella as he huddled beneath the overhang behind Kevin’s speakeasy. Little rivers raced past his black shoes and into the gutters, swelling the nearby Hudson River and flushing out all sorts of filth.

Quiet footsteps splashed in the mouth of the alleyway behind him. He closed his umbrella and glanced up, expecting to see an equally soaked drunk or a miserable policeman.

Silhouetted against a stormy sky and rain-dark buildings, a single man. His long black cloak, which had been expertly tailored to suit his slender frame, looked almost dry. He held a closed umbrella over his shoulder like a cane, his collar popped up to shield him from the weather.

He stood tall, his other hand on his hip.

And his eyes.

David broke into a stunned smile, transfixed by his icy blue eyes.

“Nice weather we’re having,” Daniel said, breaking into a cocky smile.

“Daniel!” David gasped, holding out a hand.

Daniel stepped closer and took it. David tugged him beneath the overhang and out of the rain.

Their chests met as Daniel let himself be pulled close.

He didn't let go of David’s hand.

“It's good to see you again, darling boy,” he rumbled, leaning in until their noses brushed together.

David’s eyes went wide, his face red. “I, uhm,” he breathed.

Daniel interrupted him by dropping his grip to cup David’s cheek and kissing him beneath the drumming rain.

The kiss was soft, chaste, but left David breathless. It lasted only a moment, all whispered breaths and warm lips. David melted in his firm grip.

They broke apart, but they didn't _have_ to, and David caught Daniel’s lips all over again. This time their noses bumped.

Daniel laughed, his voice gentle and breathy.

David caught Daniel’s coat lapel and held it tight.

When they broke apart a second time, Daniel took David’s hand from the front of his coat and kissed his knuckles. He bowed his head, eyes still watching David’s boiling face.

“Golly,” he muttered, breathless.

Daniel laughed again and straightened. He hung his umbrella’s handle over the crook of his elbow, then reached up to straighten his tie with both thin, gloved hands.

“How have you been?” he asked smoothly. “I've missed your company.”

“I'm, um,” David hesitated, and then stopped to consider. How _was_ he?

He remembered how they had parted last time, how Daniel had needed time to think. How he'd searched for Gwen and looked after he'd leapt to assumptions. How he'd ruined their mutual trust. How he'd been promoted to detective and given some time off to deal with the stress. How he'd hidden in his apartment for days on end.

“Bad,” he shrugged, with an apologetic smile. “I've missed you too. It's been lonely.” His face burned with embarrassment.

“Darling...” Daniel said softly, reaching out to take his hand. “I'm so sorry, if I had known, I would have...” he paused, lacing their fingers together. “Perhaps I would have asked you to accompany me for a walk, or a meal, or.” He smirked. “Or to come here and forget all of that for a little while. Just like everyone else here. Would you like to blow off some steam tonight, David?”

David squeezed Daniel's hand, still staring down at his own feet. “I wanted your help to fix things, but I don't know how you could help me. I don't even know where to start.”

“Then let's have one night to ourselves first. A night to take your mind off of it. We can talk about it tomorrow if you'd like, but we’re already here.”

David lifted his head. “You'd help me?”

Daniel nodded. “If I'm able. With the way I acted last time, and how I left,” he gave a nervous laugh, “you must have thought I wanted you dead! So I'm sure it's my fault, really.” He patted David’s hand.

“No, no, it's all my fault,” David insisted. “You had every right, I never should have--”

Daniel pressed a finger to his lips.

“Come with me. Let me give you a good time tonight, dear. Consider it an apology for my behavior, and to get your head right before tomorrow rolls around.” He folded his hands in the small of his back.

“But, Gwen, I... I have to help, it's... I feel so guilty,” David stammered.

“Put it out of your mind, just for tonight,” Daniel instructed him. “We will figure it out tomorrow. Together.”

David shifted from foot to foot. He reached up, tugging on Daniel’s newly straightened tie, pulling him in for another quick kiss.

“Together,” he said when they broke apart. “I like the sound of that.”

Daniel smiled.

Footsteps splashed towards the mouth of the alleyway, and David quickly straightened up away from Daniel. He ran a hand through his hair and hastily smoothed it down with rainwater. Daniel followed suit, taking a step backwards and staring off as if he'd just seen something mildly interesting in the middle distance. But the footsteps continued on towards the street in front of the pawn shop.

David exhaled a sigh of relief that turned into a quiet little laugh.

“We should get inside,” Daniel muttered. “Less unwanted eyes. Less wet.”

He waved his arm in an ‘after you’ motion, and David nodded and ducked down to open the cellar doors.

David disappeared down the stairs, and Daniel followed after a beat. He closed the doors behind him, each dull thud of metal on metal silencing the storm and sniffing out the last of the light.

Daniel laughed, and after a brief wait in the darkness, he flicked on a lighter and held it up.

Music thumped just beyond the inner door, a sliver of dim light spilling out from beneath it.

Tonight, David saw, Kevin had provided a number of cheap coat hangers and hung them from the exposed pipes. Coats from earlier arrivals shifted as each of the newcomers grabbed a hanger and stored their own in this little closet.

Daniel flicked the lighter closed as David pushed into the smoky speakeasy.

It let in a clamor of instruments and voices and the smell of smoke and aftershave. Chips clattered. Feet clicked rhythmically.

David stepped inside first this time, blinded as always by the sparkling dresses, jewelry, and smiles. No matter how many times he stepped into this shady establishment with its grime hidden behind some wood polish and a fresh coat of paint, he was always struck by a sense of adventure.

Daniel stepped in beside him and pointed him towards the bar.

Several nearby gamblers became very preoccupied with their fanned cards. One bold woman whispered to her friend, and when David glanced at her movement, she locked eyes to give him a knowing wink.

David smiled back, confused. Daniel clapped a hand over David's shoulder and steered him through a quickly parting crowd.

The patrons who looked up at their intrusion would glance past David before surprise took their face. They backed up, shoving their less-attentive neighbors out of the way.

Daniel, David realized. He turned to look over his shoulder, wondering what sort of face he could possibly be making that could part a crowd like that.

Daniel wore the cocky smirk well, David thought, his face hot. But it wasn't directed out into the room.

Daniel looked up when he realized he'd been caught staring. He did not have the decency to be embarrassed.

He winked.

David stumbled, but caught himself. His face grew hotter. Daniel was staring at _him_.

At his ass, specifically.

And then glancing up with a possessive grin, daring even the drunkest idiot to keep standing in their way.

David ducked his face, suddenly aware of how he was moving his arms and unsure of what he was doing with his hands. He shivered, a drop of sweat tickling his spine.

It felt strange to be wanted.

It felt intoxicating.

He pressed his way up to the bar, which was little more than a polished wooden counter tall enough to rest his elbows against. Behind it, two men and a woman took folded bills and handed out glasses of wine.

David's sleeve stuck for a moment to the counter, which had apparently been cleaned with the spills of many drunken patrons.

“Kevin!” David called, and waved him over.

Daniel stepped in beside David, their elbows brushing. He gave off an air of cool indifference, staring in the direction of the dance floor at nothing in particular.

“Oh, uh, hey bud,” Kevin greeted David cautiously, polishing a tumbler with a rag. “And I see you've met Daniel, he's been a fixture here for months.”

“We’re... acquainted,” Daniel said, turning with a soft smile. “My usual, if you would.”

“Yeah, coming right up,” Kevin nodded. He spun and brought the tumbler up to a small barrel and twisted the tap, filling the glass more than halfway. “You want anything?” he asked David with a nod, setting Daniel’s drink in front of him with a sharp click.

“No, no, I don't--” David shook his head, but Daniel grasped his shoulder and silenced him.

“Give him a glass of wine, Kevin. If he doesn't drink it, I will.” He turned his brilliant smile to David now, lifting his glass and tipping it to him in a toast. He knocked back a sip and held the brim of the glass with long, graceful fingers. “You've had a difficult few days. Live a little.”

Kevin looked from David to Daniel with a blossoming surprise and understanding. He froze, one hand on the rag and the other halfway to grasping a wine glass.

David closed his eyes as if it pained him to consider the notion but finally conceded with a gentle nod.

“Okay kid, come down here and, uh, pick your wine,” Kevin muttered. “There's only like two choices actually, but I'll let you smell them I guess.” He pointed down to the end of the bar.

“I assure you,” Daniel said smoothly, “he won't know the difference. One is just an older vintage.”

“Yeah,” David shrugged, “it's the same to me.”

Kevin looked nervously at Daniel. He tilted his head down the bar. “What I mean is,” he tried to motion more insistently, “perhaps I could give you some pointers on how to--”

“You can say it in front of me, Kevin,” Daniel sighed. “He's just going to tell me anyways.”

Kevin looked to David.

“Yeah, we’re both looking into the same things,” he told Kevin behind his hand with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows.

Kevin sniffed and leaned over the bar between them. “Oh, alright then,” he shrugged, and reached into his pocket. “I had a guy come in and I, uh, see for yourself.” He pulled three cards out.

An eight, a six, and a two of clubs.

David took them silently, his eyes wide. He noted the drop of blood on each, slightly smeared. He turned them over - a squared off W, a sloppy T, and a P. Each matched the handwriting, the faded ink, the design of David’s other cards.

“Sorry, it was still a little wet when I put them in my pocket.”

“Oh my gosh!” David hissed, a few nearby patrons turning to look at him.

Daniel set his drink on the bar, craning over David’s shoulder.

“He's a collector,” Kevin said a little more loudly, scratching at his beard. He busied himself with his glass and his rag, then stepped away to pour David his wine.

“Hmm,” Daniel purred beside David’s ear,” “what is it you're... collecting?” He grinned knowingly.

David blushed, tucking them into the pocket inside his vest. He patted his hand over them twice. “I think they're clues, but I'm not sure what they're for yet.”

“Are there more, then?”

“A few, at home,” he muttered towards Daniel. “I have three more clubs and the spade that led me here in the first place.”

Kevin set the wine in front of David, his hands shaking.

“So,” Daniel addressed Kevin, “you said the blood was still wet?”

“Uh, yeah,” he grunted, “this guy came in, he had nine fingers. I turned my back on him for one minute and the cards in my case looked like this. He didn't even use the key to open the case, I don't know how he did it.”

“Nine fingers?” Daniel and David said in unison.

Kevin blinked. “Yeah, his ring finger was gone so he was pointing to things with his first two so he didn't have to make a fist.”

“Hmm,” Daniel hummed thoughtfully, stroking his chin. He took another small sip of his amber drink.

“Does he sound familiar?” David asked in a hushed tone, his green eyes wide and sparkling in the low light.

Daniel was quiet for a moment, the clink of his glass as he set it down was drowned out by a hundred voices.

“He sounds recognizable if you know what to look for.” A gentle smile spread across his face. “But this is starting to sound like shop talk.”

“Oh, right,” David frowned.

Daniel shifted until he could brush his knuckles against David’s thigh. “You need to take your mind off of it.”

“You're right,” he nodded. “Kevin, thank you, I'll look at these more when I wake up tomorrow.”

“Okay, if you've got anything else to tell me I'll be here all week.”

David opened his mouth to wish Kevin well, and then he remembered. He did have something else to tell Kevin.

Something he'd forgotten in the steamy mess that was last time.

“I did actually!” he brightened, talking behind his hand. “I forgot to tell you, we got a lead!”

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest.

“On the cards?” Kevin muttered back.

“On the Prophet.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow, his eyes trained on his drink.

“We’re pretty sure she’s killing people who own speakeasies.”

“What?!” Kevin gasped. His face drained of color in seconds. “Oh, fuck,” he squeezed out of his lungs. “Okay, okay, there's got to be like a hundred speakeasy owners, right? It's not like she knows I exist.”

“Is there really?” David asked in disbelief.

Kevin shrugged shakily. “I don't know, the only other one I know is Frederick.”

“Mott?” Daniel piped up.

“The Motterie is a speakeasy?” David laughed.

Kevin waved his hands, flustered. “Shit, no, I mean...”

“It's okay,” David soothed. “I'm here all night, and I'm not going to go arrest Mr. Mott or anything.”

Kevin poured himself a drink and began nursing it.

“Cheers,” Daniel said, lifting his glass and motioning to Kevin.

“Oh, yeah. Cheers,” he returned flatly, holding up his overfilled wine. “I think I'm going to head upstairs for a bit, get a breath of fresh air.”

David took his own glass off the bar. “You really could use a break.”

“Yeah, especially because,” he leaned over the bar again, “I still can't figure out where that guy got the blood from. Did he just cut open his hand?”

“We’ll be around, Kevin,” Daniel smiled sweetly, taking David’s arm. “Have a good evening!”

His grip slid to David’s hand, those graceful, slender fingers fitting perfectly together. He sipped his cognac as he stepped away, pulling David along with him.

“Thank you, Kevin!” David called back over his shoulder, but Kevin had already gone.

Daniel led David over to the corner booth and ushered him inside. As David scooted in over the vinyl, Daniel stood and took his time to produce a cigar from his inner pocket. He held it beneath his nose to breathe in the earthy tang of tobacco.

David admired his thoughtful examination, each smooth roll of tobacco leaves between the pads of his fingers.

Once David settled into his usual spot, Daniel sat beside him. He relaxed back into the seat and laid the cigar on the table.

And then he turned to David.

“I did say no shop talk for tonight, my dear,” he scolded with a smile. Eyes flashing dangerously, he leaned his forearm on the table to box David in. “The cards are quite interesting, but what did you say to set Kevin off like that?”

“Oh,” David said slowly, “but you were listening in. And I thought you knew more about this case than me.”

Daniel glanced to the side. “You caught me, officer. I’ve been in the business of information for a while, and old habits die hard. I'm just trying to gauge what you know, against my own rules. You’re pretty sharp.”

A blush rose in David’s cheeks as he beamed. “I try to be! I’m in the business of finding the truth.” But then, his smile faltered. “My partners, both of my partners, were much sharper than me.”

Daniel reached out and laid his hand, palm up, in David’s lap. David hesitated for only a moment before he laced their fingers together and gave a little squeeze.

“Put that negativity out of your mind for now, David. You are intuitive and kind and a good cop in your own right, and you need a break.” Daniel stroked his thumb against David’s palm. “Try a drink. If you don’t like it, it won’t go to waste.”

David stared down at the soft black leather, the slow movement calming. With his left hand, he awkwardly grasped the glass by the stem and held it.

“Did you pay for this?”

Daniel smirked. “I don’t buy drinks here, darling. They are given to me.”

“What? Really?” Daniel twisted to look at him, “why?”

“No, no more detective work,” Daniel laughed. “I assure you, there’s a very good reason, but for now, forget it.”

He let go of David’s hand to lift his cigar and a flickering tea candle. He held the flame to the end of the cigar, slowly rolling it between his fingers as he drew a mouthful of smoke. The end glowed an even cherry red.

He set the candle down and flicked it aside, the tiny flame guttering before returning stronger than ever.

David watched, transfixed by the way Daniel let the smoke trail out of his mouth instead of blowing it away all at once.

He looked down into the glass of wine as Daniel tended to the ember, ensuring it glowed bright and balanced and steady.

He could drink this. He had it in his hands, and he was in the company of drinkers, and it could help temper his emotions. It was just one drink, one night, one time.

But it was illegal. And he was a cop. And if he did this, well...

He’d be no better than Gwen.

He swirled the glass, stopped, and frowned.

 _Better than Gwen?_ Did he really think that? Had he thought he was _better_ than Gwen?

...Had he?

The guilt burned in his gut. He set the glass to his lips and tipped it back.

A beat passed, and then another. The taste wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t nauseating. Acidic and sour, a hint of chemicals, but sweet enough to be palatable. He pulled a face, but sipped again.

“Oh good,” Daniel smiled, smoke muffling his voice and trickling out from between his teeth. “I thought that was going to be much harder.” He held out the cigar and turned his head away, blowing smoke into the room.

David inspected it, confused. “Do you need the candle again?” he asked, reaching for it.

Daniel snorted. “I’m already being a rotten influence, may as well skin the whole cat. Have you ever smoked?”

“No.” David sipped at his wine again.

"There's two ways to smoke a cigar," Daniel explained slowly. "The first way is to draw the smoke into your mouth without breathing it in. You're just tasting it."

"Okay," David nodded. "What's the second way?"

"Wrong," Daniel shrugged, his smile abnormally white.

"So just... put my mouth on it?" David squeaked.

Daniel set his chin on his unoccupied fist. "Oh, please do," he mumbled, his voice gravelly and flirtatious.

David took a deep gulp of wine. It was one time, one night.

“I...guess I’ll try,” he sighed, and held the cigar to his mouth the way Daniel had done it. “Just once, so I know what it’s like.”

“Before you start, just let yourself take in the scent. Hold it gently with your teeth.”

David blinked, gingerly biting into the aromatic wrapping. It smelled okay, he supposed, and tasted less great, earthy and bitter and almost tingling where his lips wrapped around the cigar.

"Now when you're ready," Daniel continued, "hollow your cheeks, then suck." He winked. "Just until it fills your mouth."

David shivered. His whole right side felt strange and hot, even though Daniel was cool where they pressed together.

He exhaled through his nose, and then pulled on the cigar just hard enough to make the end flare cherry red. The sensation of thick, dark smoke filling his mouth was strange and unsettling. It smelled almost leathery, musky and strong.

He coughed, a taste like burned caramel clinging to the back of his throat.

Daniel chuckled and took the cigar back, tapping it into an ashtray.

“Cigars, like most of my indulgences, are an acquired taste.”

David struggled to contain his coughing, his eyes watering now. He sipped at the wine in an effort to wet his throat.

He stared down at the glass again. It tasted so sweet now, like a grape juice with a hint of something acidic which gave it a refreshing little bite. Eyes wide, he drained the glass.

Daniel lifted his cognac in a little ‘cheers’ motion, his face smug.

“It wasn’t that good before, what on earth is in those?” David gasped, setting the empty glass down.

“Tobacco, mostly,” Daniel shrugged. “The taste is so strong and kind of bitter that it makes anything sweet by comparison.” He leaned the cigar on the side of the ashtray and turned to David. “What else can we do tonight to take your mind off of things?”

David absentmindedly took Daniel’s hand and turned it over, running a finger down his palm. “We could dance,” he murmured with a smile.

Daniel captured the wandering finger. “I would love to,” he hummed, giving David’s hand a squeeze.

He slammed back his cognac much too quickly and stood, a dusting of blush rising in his aristocratic cheekbones.

\---

Daniel’s cigar smoke and his arm wrapped around David’s shoulders, their hips pressed together in the booth.

David felt incredible. Exhilarated from dancing, warm beside Daniel, the air swirling with laughter and music and flickering candlelight.

...Swirling a lot more now that he'd nursed a second glass of wine.

He let his head droop to Daniel’s shoulder with a little laugh. “Do you like this booth because it's romantic?” he asked abruptly, taken with the darkness and isolation.

“Perhaps,” Daniel said, and David could hear his smile.

David grasped the hand dangling over his shoulder and, with a furtive look out into the room, kissed the leather over Daniel’s knuckles.

Daniel blew a mouthful of smoke over David’s head. “You're a very sweet boy,” he chuckled. “That kind of tickles.” He ducked to peck David’s forehead; it was the only affection he knew would be safe in public, even in as lawless a place as this.

David blushed a color that clashed with his hair.

“How did I ever catch such a darling?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I'm just lucky.” He pulled back to draw another mouthful of smooth, musky smoke.

“I'm the lucky one,” David beamed, his eyes shining with the glow from the embers. “You actually like me, and you're a gentleman, and a _private investigator_ ,” he gasped. “That's amazing! I bet you already know everything about this case and you're just missing one piece and that's why you haven't cracked it wide open yet!” He sighed. “I wish we could share information, I think we would--”

“We could,” Daniel smiled, smoke leaking from between his white teeth. “Tomorrow at the earliest.”

David sat up straight, his mouth hanging open in a little o of surprise. “Really?!” he squeaked.

Daniel tapped David on the nose with one graceful finger. “You're closer to the truth than you think,” he winked. “And besides, I would appreciate the help.”

“Okay!” David chirped, “tomorrow? Where tomorrow?”

“Probably the day after,” Daniel shrugged. “I don't know how well I'll sleep after all this,” he smiled.

David raised an eyebrow. “Oh, alright, when and where should we meet?”

“Do you have a phone?”

David nodded, and then shrugged. “I barely use it, I usually get letters.”

Daniel laughed again. “I will be happy to usher you into the twentieth century! What is your phone number?”

David had to think for a moment. When he finally recalled, he listed it off as Daniel made a mental note of it.

“Then... it's a date.” He took David’s hand and squeezed it. “I'll call you when I've made plans.”

“Gosh,” David whispered, face burning. “I've been set up on dates before, but never...” he bit his lip.

Daniel tipped David’s chin up with his forefinger and locked eyes with him. “I guess I'll just have to sweep you off your feet then.”

“If anyone can,” David said, “it's you.”

Daniel leaned back, biting into his cigar. He sucked through it for a moment and this time, blew a lazy smoke ring.

“I am so lucky,” David muttered to himself in awe. “You're so confident and charming. Everyone in here is both scared of you and drawn to your charisma. Even me.”

He leaned into Daniel’s side, lips an inch from Daniel’s ear.

“Especially me,” he confessed.

Daniel reached up and brushed his fingers through David’s unruly hair. “You're scared of me?” he growled, voice smug and dangerous.

David shivered. “A little bit.”

Daniel chuckled, his breath moving David’s hair.

“But you still kissed me.”

David nodded. “Like I said, I'm the lucky one.”

Daniel kissed the top of his head again.

“I have a secret,” David mumbled, barely audible even to Daniel over the jazz band.

Daniel straightened, his smile devilish. “You do?” he hummed back.

“Yeah,” David sighed, and then hesitated.

Daniel turned, his lips almost touching David's temple.

“I have a secret too.”

David's heart stopped for a moment.

“Oh...!” he squeaked, voice cracking.

He snaked his hand across Daniel’s body, plucking the cigar out of his hand and gingerly propping it up on the edge of an ashtray. He then took Daniel’s hand and laced their fingers together under the table.

“I...I guess I should go first then,” David stammered, “it's only fair.”

Daniel gave his hand a squeeze.

“I... I've never... I shouldn't...” David tried, almost breathless. “I was always... I try to be good,” he continued, “but I... this is probably not good of me, it's weird and bad...”

“It's alright,” Daniel soothed, “I wouldn't tell a living soul, I swear it.”

David drew a long breath in through his nose to steady himself. His hand trembled against Daniel's as he found the daring to finish.

“I like being a little bit scared of you.”

Daniel swallowed slowly.

“I'm sorry,” David immediately stammered, “that's weird and bad.” He pulled away.

Daniel’s hand, their fingers still interlocked, held him back.

“No, David, that's... sweet.” He curled his other arm around David’s waist and found his hip with a forefinger. With his gloved fingertip tracing slow circles over the bone, he leaned back in close.

“You haven't heard my secret yet.” He spoke quietly, his voice strained with tenuous control.

David's heart slammed behind his ribs, beating faster than the music.

Daniel leaned so close his jaw brushed David's cheekbone as he spoke.

“I like being a little afraid of you too.”

David felt heat sear through his face, the pit of his stomach, every one of his veins. He knew he burned red from the tips of his ears to his throat. He shivered and a sharp breath whistled past his lips.

“You? You're scared... of me?”

Daniel smiled, pretty and predatory. “I'd be a damn fool not to be.”

David gave his hand a quick, devout little squeeze.

“Me?” he whispered, the edge of a laugh in his voice. “...Scary?”

“I've always liked dangerous things,” Daniel rumbled, his teeth clicking in David’s ear.

David felt a drop of sweat tickle down his spine. He squirmed as Daniel’s knuckles brushed his thigh.

“I should show you something,” Daniel said, sliding out of the booth as David blinked furiously to rid himself of his stupor. He left David’s feverishly hot side and hip and shoulder, abandoning his stubbed out cigar and nearly drained spirits. “Come with me.”

David steadied himself, and took Daniel’s hand when he offered it. They both stood and straightened themselves out, rebuttoning cuffs and tucking shirts back in.

A few people at the nearest gambling table gave them looks that were scandalized, but not altogether unappreciative.

David gave a shy smile and wave.

Daniel nudged David's ribs and offered him the crook of his elbow. David gripped Daniel's forearm and sheepishly let himself be led past the curious stares and towards the back door.

“Should I be this close?” David whispered. “People might guess we’re--”

“Oh, they know,” Daniel hummed, smiling down at seated blackjack players. “Speakeasies attract all kinds of queer people.”

He carried himself, tall and confident, through the parting crowd.

When he reached the door to the anteroom, he threw it open and ushered David through.

“Are we leaving?” David asked with a puzzled look.

Daniel closed the door behind them, cutting off much of the laughter and orange light.

“No,” he smiled. “This will be private enough. Even the late arrivals are here, and,” he scratched his chin, then grabbed the broom in the corner, “nobody will want to leave for at least another hour.” He wedged the broom across the door.

“What are you doing?” David hissed over the thrum of music in the next room.

“This lock isn't great,” Daniel shrugged.

David put a hand on his forehead. “You can't just lock people in there! What if there's a fire? What if the police show up? What if the police show up _in the back?_ ”

Daniel put up a hand to silence him, then placed it on David’s shoulder. He leaned in until he’d pinned David against the wall of coats.

“You worry too much,” Daniel growled in David's ear, and then kissed him.

David melted into Daniel’s warm body, those soft lips and the threat of sharp teeth replacing his worries with a gentle buzz of happiness.

“Mmh,” Daniel hummed, and broke the kiss. “I see you like the wine,” he teased, his lips tickling David’s cheek.

“Am I drunk?” David mumbled innocently.

Daniel laughed, his body shaking as he pressed up against David. “No, dear, you're buzzed at best.”

“It wasn't awful,” David admitted with a shrug.

Daniel snorted. “You have _such_ a delicate palate. Barely liked my cigar, wine ‘wasn't awful,’ turns his nose up at cognac,” he laughed, and kissed him again.

“I like what _you_ taste like,” he replied sweetly.

Daniel growled out a soft moan. He shifted his weight, nudging his thigh between David’s legs and caging him against the thrumming wall.

David’s heart pounded behind his ribs, his eyes wide and reflecting the faint light.

He stammered, “Wh-what were you going to show me?”

Daniel pet his fingers through David’s hair, more possessively this time.

“I brought something. Just for you,” he said.

“I-I didn't know we were exchanging gifts,” David stuttered, looking sorry.

Daniel laughed again. “No, dear. It's my knife.”

David bit his lip.

“Well, officer,” Daniel teased, “aren't you going to search me?”

“But, I,” David stammered, “I know where it is, you keep it under your--”

“Then aren't you going to disarm me?” Daniel tried again. “I'm a dangerous criminal, cornering an officer of the law and armed like this.”

David's eyebrows rose in realization.

His hands crept inside Daniel’s suit jacket, sliding easily under his purple waistcoat and into the small of his back. He smoothed his hands over the dress shirt and then began pulling back, his left hand finding Daniel’s hidden blade sheathed diagonally beneath his arm. He lifted it off of him with a slow draw, ever so careful with the straight blade near Daniel’s rich clothing.

It whispered out from under his suit coat. The steel flickered like ice even in the remaining hint of candlelight.

“I don't think that was by the book,” Daniel said.

David shook his head. “I don't usually let criminals get this close to me.”

David smirked. “So glad to be the exception.”

“Me too.”

He let Daniel kiss him. When they broke away, Daniel made no move to take the knife back.

“Now pin me,” he growled against David’s lips.

“What?”

“You don't think you're dangerous. I'll show you that you're more frightening than you think.”

David looked down at the hand holding the knife. “I don't think I could be convincing,” he sighed.

“I'll teach you.”

David lifted the knife, and tossed it into his right hand. With his left, he grabbed Daniel’s tie for the second time that night.

“I'll try,” he said, as his only warning.

And then David put his back into it, swinging them both around in a powerful pivot and slamming Daniel against the wall with his full weight.

Daniel wheezed for a second as the air was knocked out of him, and it quickly turned to laughter.

“Was that okay?” David’s voice came out as a worried peep.

“Mmm,” Daniel composed himself, “perfect. Now threaten me, dear.”

David pressed his forearm into Daniel’s collarbones and lifted the knife.

“Press it closer,” he instructed, “like you mean it.”

“Like this?” David breathed, touching the razor-sharp edge to the side of Daniel’s bobbing Adam's apple.

He replied with a groan and a too-wide smile.

“Mm, perfect,” he hummed, and swallowed. The movement of his throat made steel bite into flesh, nicking a shallow line on his windpipe.

“Oh sorry, sorry!” David squeaked, yanking the knife away in fear.

Daniel snatched his wrist.

“Like you mean it,” he hissed, his eyes flashing dangerously as he jerked David’s hand and the knife back to his throat, forcing David to jab him a second time.

“Look at me,” Daniel ordered. “You're powerful enough to do this,” he growled, holding his wrist firmly in place. “You are dangerous enough to hold me here on the point of my knife, David.”

“But you did that,” David denied.

“Remember, David, I'm a criminal. If you really want to hold me here, then all you have to do is make me believe you can.”

David could feel his fingers starting to shake, but pushed it down for Daniel. He nodded, trying his best to look stern. His forearm moved from Daniel’s chest and he instead splayed his hand open under Daniel’s jaw, thumb resting over a huge, throbbing vein deep under his skin.

Daniel’s grip on his wrist loosened, and then slowly pulled away. David's eyes flicked nervously between the blade resting in a rivulet of blood and Daniel’s stare, challenging him.

Did he ever blink?

“Now let me see it in your eyes. Show me that, if I made one wrong move, you'd open my throat without hesitation,” he encouraged, presenting his bare, pale throat all the more.

David tried with all of his might to scowl while his hand shook. “I don't want to hurt you,” he whimpered softly over the thrum of music. He looked sad. “I'm sorry.”

The two of them stood still and silent for a long moment. The trickle of blood collected in the dip of Daniel's collarbone as David watched, transfixed with fear.

And then, Daniel spoke.

“I'm going to disarm you, dear,” he warned, and before David had time to understand what he'd said, Daniel threw up an elbow and sent the knife arcing harmlessly to the side. He used the momentum to pivot and pin David again, pressing up against him and devouring his mouth again with desperate nipping kisses.

“You're _such_ a good boy,” Daniel moaned against David’s pliant mouth. “So _fucking_ perfect.

David managed to speak between kisses, asking, “didn't I do it wrong?” before Daniel’s teeth caught his lower lip.

The music thumping against the wall slowed and went silent for a moment, and Daniel stopped smothering David in affection long enough to catch his breath. 

“You did... perfectly,” Daniel panted, his pupils blown wide even for the dim room. “You're you. And that's... so fucking dangerous.”

He touched his gloved fingers to the thin cuts on his throat.

“Oh, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, let me,” he soothed, grasping Daniel’s hand and pulling it away from his throat to survey the damage.

A stain bloomed across his shirt collar, but otherwise, the two cuts were superficial.

He brought Daniel’s fingertips to his mouth and began cleaning the leather with his tongue.

Daniel stared for a moment, forgetting to breathe. David's careful licks and guilty expression made his heart quicken for a moment.

When the gloves were clean, David popped the fingertips from between his lips. He then leaned forward, setting his hot mouth on Daniel’s throat and repeating the process.

Daniel cupped a hand around David’s head, stroking his hair in encouragement. He sighed, the soothing licks melting into slow kisses against his skin. His blood pulsed under David’s teeth, making Daniel squirm.

When David was satisfied with his work, he gave Daniel apologetic and coppery kisses.

Daniel boldly reached down to David's hip, then to the waistline of his pants, his palm smoothing over David's slacks until he could stroke between David's legs.

David squeaked and slapped Daniel's hand away in surprise, pushing back, pinned against the speakeasy wall.

Daniel moved his slapped hand to stroke David's hip, through both shirt and union suit with the pad of his thumb, never breaking the desperate kiss. He could taste his own blood on David’s teeth and moaned his approval.

Now it was David’s turn to catch Daniel’s wrist.

It was okay, David reminded himself. Daniel was okay. Better than okay. He was charismatic and charming and put-together. Clean, neat, and handsome.

He scared him. But he was scared of David too.

And he'd called him _perfect_.

David relaxed against the wall, enjoying the simple way Daniel nipped at his lips, kissed him without hesitation, pinned him with his lithe, warm body.

How he allowed David to move his hand by the wrist and place his palm back down between his legs.

Daniel broke away. His blue eyes widened and one of his eyebrows shot up in a suave smirk. The heel of his hand pressed into the unmistakable shape of David’s cock, and Daniel gave a pleased groan as he traced around it.

David squirmed under the firm pressure, embracing Daniel, eyes hazy.

Daniel’s slender fingers stroked up, and then down, David’s shaft. He tried to curl them down, lower, but met only taut fabric. He smoothed his thumb back up and grabbed the button on David’s pants.

“Such a good boy,” he muttered again. “Spread your legs for me.”

David shifted, following directions. He opened his thighs and leaned back against the rumpled coats.

He rolled his hips against Daniel’s hand and sharply sucked in a breath. The sensation was different. Surprising.

Daniel pressed against every part of David’s body, his own thigh holding David’s legs apart, chests flush, noses brushing. He took the opportunity to lift David's chin and nip his throat, then soothe the light mark with kisses. As his lips worked a bruise into David's skin, he reached down with both hands to pull open the front of David's pants.

David squeaked, blinking his wide eyes. He clung to Daniel’s shoulders, his knees going weak under the attention. He lifted one, hooking it over Daniel's hip to keep from toppling them both over.

Daniel slipped his hand down into David’s pants, catching the head of David’s cock through his union suit and covering it again with his hand.

David’s breath hitched as he bucked his hips into that feeling. The leather whispered over the cotton and hinted at a rough palm and sharp nails hiding underneath.

Daniel kissed a line up his throat and over his jaw, pausing to chuckle darkly at David’s unfocused expression and quiet whimpers. He clearly couldn't figure out what to do with his hands, his blunt nails digging into the shoulders of Daniel’s suit jacket where they had caught in the seams.

“How do you like it?” Daniel growled, their noses almost touching and his hand cupping too gently to be satisfying.

“I don't know!” David squeaked. He glanced around, eyes wide and scared and desperate.

Daniel hushed him. “It's okay,” he cooed, and then, reverently: “you really are an untouched little lamb, aren't you?”

David bit his lip.

Daniel caressed his cheek. “Just talk to me then, darling boy,” he crooned, working his hand a touch harder over David’s cock. “I'm an investigator, remember? I can just follow your clues, but,” he teased, “testimony makes the case.”

David met his eyes again, his pupils blown wide and lips puffy and shining. He smiled at the joke, his grin inching wider as the metaphor sunk in.

His chuckle quickly tapered off into a soft moan as Daniel stroked him through the cotton of his union suit. His hand tightened as he stroked from base to tip and back again.

“L-like that,” David shivered, leaning back into the flattened coats.

Daniel smirked, repeating the motion with his fingertips dragging slowly past David’s balls. “Good boy,”

With a surprised moan, David ground down against Daniel’s thigh and thrust into his hand. “Please,” he pleaded, his breath coming in warm little whimpers.

His heart hammered in his chest, every stroke sending shivers up his spine and coiling something tight and hot in his stomach.

But Daniel took his hand away again, and reached back down to open one button, and then another, until his hand met bare skin beneath both shirt and underwear.

David squeaked and clamped his thighs closed around Daniel’s knee.

“Sensitive?” Daniel asked.

David nodded. “Cold.”

Daniel hid his mouth behind his hand to stifle a laugh. “You are just darling,” he said, pecking a kiss to the corner of David’s open mouth.

And then the friction of one sinful leather glove wrapping around David's bare length pulled a keening sound from his lungs. His eyes went half-lidded, unfocused. His jaw hung slack as he panted, inhaling sharply in time with Daniel's bobbing wrist.

“Do you like that, dear?” Daniel spoke, using his other hand to tug David’s shirt up to watch David’s cock slip between his fingers. “You're a good-sized boy, aren't you?”

“Daniel...” David said in a warning tone.

Instantly, the hand stilled.

“Mm...!” David gasped. “Please! Daniel, please keep... please,” he babbled on, rolling his hips in frustration as Daniel loosened his grip.

“Tell me how you feel,” Daniel soothed. “I want to hear you say it.”

“So good, you're so good,” he mumbled in response.

“Just a little more,” Daniel rumbled, swiping his thumb over the dribbling head and massaging his covered nail over the slit. He pumped once and paused, and David cried out.

His hips rolled desperately into Daniel's hand, which squeezed tight and held him back as he teetered on the edge. He whined, his mind cloudy and every inch of his body wound tight.

“Ask,” Daniel ordered. His expression oozed confidence, danger behind sharp white teeth.

David leaned his head back to look at him, with swimming vision and a sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. He made no indication that he'd heard.

Daniel wove his fingers into David’s hair and tugged his head to the side, exposing his throat. His face split into a lecherous grin when David shuddered and moaned.

“I want to hear you ask me nicely to finish you off,” he clarified, voice gravelly with enthusiasm. “Say please, Daniel,” he prompted, “let me fuck your hand.”

David's eyes fluttered closed. He bit his lower lip, his whole body thrumming like a plucked fiddle string.

Those quick fingers could play him expertly, as if he were an instrument made for Daniel on which he teased out masterpieces. He pumped his arm again, bringing David just to the edge, where he tensed, and held him there.

“P-please,” the hesitant word fell from his lips, “let me, Daniel, please let me...”

“Yes?” Daniel waited expectantly, tracing a fingertip down the underside of his balls.

David drew in a shaky breath. “I've been so bad tonight,” he said, overwhelmed. Tears prickled his eyes.

“Shh,” Daniel hushed, letting go of his hair and instead petting it down. “No, no, darling boy. You've been so brave.” He stroked up and down his length, hard. “You're an angel,” he whispered into his ear. “My angel.”

He circled the head of David’s cock with the pad of his thumb and then wrapped his fist around it. He smoothed leather, sticky with pre, down, down, watching the head of David’s cock slowly squeeze and then pop past the circle of his thumb and forefinger.

David cried out pitifully, tears blinked aside and eyes dry in a heartbeat. He thrashed as Daniel roughly jerked his hand now, faster, whispering “good boy, my angel,” as his pace picked up. His hips thrust into Daniel’s hand with wild abandon until Daniel gave one last twist of his wrist.

“Ah!” David shouted, his head lolling back against the fabric and vision going white as his whole body tensed, then melted.

Daniel watched between their bodies as David’s cock twitched and cum splashed on the belly of his union suit and dribbled on Daniel’s glove. He stared, listening to David’s whines growing softer and higher pitched as he milked David dry.

“Stop, stop,” David squirmed, “it's so much, it's...”

Daniel tucked him back into the union suit and gave him a kiss, holding his soiled hand out of the way. He sighed in satisfaction. “You are just so perfect,” he murmured against David’s lips.

David laid his head on Daniel’s shoulder, trying to remember how to breathe. His body tingled from head to toe. For a long moment he couldn't think, his mind a blissful blank. He managed to keep his knees under him and cling to Daniel while surrounded by the scent of sex and sharp cologne.

Daniel shifted, pulling a handkerchief from his front pocket. White, silk, crisply folded for the moment. Carelessly, he wiped up his glove and then turned his attention to cleaning David.

The silk whispered across his sensitive, spent shaft, and he responded with a feeble shiver. When he'd finished, he began blotting the stain in the front of David’s union suit as much as he could manage.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he commented, tucking the dirty hanky into the bottom of his sleeve. He combed through David's hair with careful fingers, slicking back a few lank, sweaty strands.

David giggled into Daniel's shoulder. “Mmm,” he hummed. “You have magic hands.”

Daniel gave a quick laugh. “For my next trick,” he played along, his eyes half-lidded, “I'll make your worries disappear.” He bent his knees and scooped David up with one forearm, smiling up at him as he stood.

David wrapped his knees around Daniel's waist, beaming down. “Wow, you're strong!” he laughed.

“You're just light,” Daniel grinned. “You could probably lift me too, Detective.”

“I'm a policeman,” David said, flexing one arm, “what's your excuse?”

“I climbed a lot of trees as a kid,” Daniel shrugged. “You know, picking apples.”

“Like the seal on your letter!” David's eyes lit up.

“My father had an orchard upstate. It's become... something of a hobby.” He let David down to his feet. “Are you okay? You're not a bad person, David. You see bad people every day. You're not one of them.”

“I could be, if I'm not trying to be good,” David sighed. “But thank you. It's very kind of you.”

Daniel leaned down and kissed a stray tear off of his cheek.

“What do we do now?” David wondered aloud. “Do we just unlock the door here and then sneak out?” He sheepishly buttoned up his pants.

“We could,” Daniel agreed, “or we could go back in and get another drink.”

David tucked in his shirt, then straightened his tie. “I'm a mess,” he said, looking down at himself, “people will know what we've been up to.”

“First of all, you are _my_ mess.” He held up a finger. “And second,” he held up another, “do you really think this is the first rendezvous this speakeasy has seen?”

David looked to his feet, suddenly very aware of how sticky the floor was against his shoes.

“We own this place, David. You and I.”

“Kevin owns this place,” David corrected.

“Not anymore,” Daniel grinned. “He just pays the property taxes.”

He took David’s hand. “One more drink. I'm not ready to part ways yet.”

David considered for a long moment, and then nodded. “I'm not either. I don't want to cause a scandal, but...” he gave Daniel a pointed once-over, “I have a certain weakness for you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Daniel grinned. “I've learned a lot. Tonight has been a wonderful night.” He moved the broom from over the door and shoved it back into the closet corner.

“Are you ready?” he asked, waiting for David with his hand outstretched.

David tugged down the bottom of his usual green vest. “As ready as I will be,” he answered, and slid his hand into Daniel's grasp.

The two of them pushed open the door, blinking in the light.

Daniel watched with pleasure as two gamblers exchanged money and several others quickly looked away.

“We own this place,” he repeated into David's ear. “We’re a perfect storm.”

\---

Metal clanged into place and heavy boots clicked on concrete. Water dripped with a _plink plink_ into a pail sitting in the middle of the hall.

Gwen tried to unclench her jaw. She laid on an uncomfortable cot under a ragged blanket that stunk of bleach, occasionally scratching at the horrible striped dress the female inmates wore while their clothes and belongings went through processing.

Sometimes she could hear the thunder through the reinforced walls, and she imagined that the world itself could sense her roiling emotions.

The doors at the far end of the hallway burst open with a boom, and three more sets of feet tapped on the concrete. They passed row after row of cells without any sort of jeering or catcalling.

So it had to be someone important and recognizable, but slightly unusual to see taking the time to walk through a jail.

They continued their steady approach.

Gwen hoped they would pass by. She had almost drifted off to sleep, finally, after days of fitful rest.

The shoes came to a stop.

“Gertrude!” a familiar voice boomed

Gwen cringed, rage prickling up from the corners of her mind and the pit of her stomach where she'd tried to banish it.

Commissioner Campbell waved at her, holding a thick case file. “Are you ready to talk about a deal yet?”

He was flanked by two serious-looking guards.

Gwen sat up. “This again? I don't care how many times you put me in a room and insist that I make a statement, I'm not going to tell you what happened!” she snapped at him. “You're the fucking police commissioner, don't you have anything more important to be doing?”

“For now,” Campbell nodded, “the mayor could always change his mind if I don't handle my cases, and my officers.” He flipped open the folder for a second before eyeing the guards beside him and snapping it closed again.

“That's actually why I'm here. I came down to ask for your help on a case.” He smiled, hand on his hip in a heroic pose.

“I'm in jail,” Gwen said flatly, holding out a hand as if to invite him to take a look around.

“So you have a lot of time. Anyways, we’ll discuss the details in the conference room.”

Gwen stood, staring and dumbfounded. One of the guards unlocked the cell door, and the other one stepped inside.

“Are you going to cuff me to walk down the hall?” Gwen grumbled.

“Are you going to act up?” Campbell asked back. “You've never once been violent or stupid enough to do something rash, so I don't see why not. We’ve had our disagreements in the past, but you were, and if I have any say in the matter, still _are_ one of my officers. I don't see any reason for it.” He nodded at the guard, who returned the gesture and stood back for Gwen to pass.

“Oh,” he said, “and, why don't we get you something else to wear?”

Gwen stood her ground, crossing her arms over her chest. “What's the catch?”

Campbell scowled, looking hurt. “There's no catch. Even if you don't want to take this case and we have to hold you until we find out what happened, you can...” he trailed off, looking like he couldn't believe what he was saying, “you can just have your pants back.”

Gwen blinked. “Well, that would be nice, I guess,” she mumbled, exiting the cell.

“Taking the case will require a little quid pro quo,” Campbell nodded, “assuming that's the back scratching one.” He chuckled.

She fell into step beside him, one of the guards gently grasping her elbow but otherwise giving her a surprising amount of leeway.

“But there's no catch,” he said as they walked. “I'll lay everything out, and you can take it or leave it.”

“And why are you so insistent that I work on this case from, you know, a jail cell?”

“Gertie,” he shook his head with a sad laugh, “you're being held on all kinds of possession and use on the job and possible holding or dealing charges until we know what's going on. And besides,” he smiled, “it's safer than anywhere else right now.”

Gwen felt a shiver run up her spine. Campbell was desperate to catch this serial killer.

He was desperate because he, too, was scared.

Maybe - and this was a big maybe - she was being too hard on him.

They continued down the hallway and out through the main doors, then around the corner to a waiting area near the jail entrance. Here, the guards led Gwen and Campbell into a room with a single table and two chairs, with nothing on the walls.

Gwen had been in here twice before, refusing both times to give any more information about what had happened. She tensed and sat in the cold metal chair.

“Alright, here we are,” Campbell smiled, “I still have some questions, but I know you don't want to talk about you or that night. Which I totally understand!” He raised his hands in surrender, holding up the case file. “So how about we talk about what you can do to help me with this case?”

He slapped it down on the table in front of her. On the front, in black letters from a rubber stamp, it had just one word.

Confidential.

Despite herself, her eyes flickered with interest. She furrowed her brow.

“You're going to be here for a few more weeks while we get this all sorted out,” he said gently, his heavy hand over the manila folder, “so I know I can trust you with confidential information for that long, at the very least.”

Gwen swallowed heavily. This was exactly the selfish part of why she'd wanted to work for the police in the first place - sleuthing, solving mysteries, getting to know privileged information and secrets.

“As I said, I won't ask for any details about what happened a week ago. But,” he paused, a simpering smile on his face, “I still need you to tell me something else in return.”

“And if I tell you some deep dark secret you think I have, you'll let me work on a case for you while you keep me in jail?” Gwen drawled, looking unimpressed.

Campbell shook his head. “I haven't gotten to the best part. I can't promise anything because you won't tell me what’s going on, but if you solve this case,” he started, leaning over the table, “I give you my word that I will try my damndest to bend every rule and twist every arm until I get you out, scot-free.”

Gwen inhaled slowly. “Okay. What do you want to know? So I can decide if I'm going to take your deal.”

“I want to know about your other case. I want to know what you were working on with David during your off-hours.” He tapped the file with one broad forefinger. “Then, you can peruse this case at your, uh, _considerable_ leisure.”

Gwen locked eyes with him, looking guilty.

“What do you have to lose?” Campbell asked. “His trust?”

The question hung uncomfortably in the air for a long, long moment.

He cleared his throat.

“How do I know this is an interesting case?” Gwen asked.

Campbell chuckled. “Would it be confidential if it wasn't?”

Gwen considered for a moment.

He had a point.

“Do you need all of the details exactly?” She winced.

“Eventually,” he said, smiling.

Gwen stared down at the file. “So I can read this now and give you my details later?”

“Just tell me what you were looking for, and it's yours.”

Gwen scratched at her knee. “We... we were looking for officer McFadden. After you took us off the case. We were looking for Jasper.”

She waited for him to turn cross, to chide her for sticking her nose in and going against direct orders.

Instead, he smiled.

“Jasper,” he parroted, and it wasn't a question. 

He tapped two fingers on the case file and slid it over to her.

She caught it, and opened the cover.

“So you see,” he spoke as her eyes zipped over the print, “I think you're the best person to help me with this case.”

She kept reading, glancing over a few black and white photos, reports, timelines. Her eyes went wide.

“How long have you been working on this?” she hissed.

“Oh,” Campbell smiled, “years.”

\---

David approached his apartment on high alert. He hadn't forgotten this morning.

He stuck the key into his apartment door with measured slowness, straining to hear any hint of commotion inside. The bolt clunked, and he shoved the door past the sticking place. It flew open with a hollow rattle.

He reached towards his chest for his gun, which he'd left beside his phonograph records on the bookshelf.

“Hello?” he called into the darkness.

Silence.

He flicked on the light.

The kitchen and living room sat quiet and untouched, every pan and dish where he'd left it.

He locked the door behind him and bolted it for good measure.

After a pause to listen again, he tiptoed for the bookcase and reached for his gun.

His hand quickly found the familiar weapon. It was cold, heavy, exactly as he'd hidden it. Nervously he cracked it open.

Six bullets. He tipped them into his hand and loaded them back in. Still unfired. He clicked it closed and held it, thumb on the safety.

“Hello?” he called towards his closed bedroom door. He pointed the muzzle down, aiming somewhere in front of his feet.

He glanced back the the kitchen window with the rag stuffed against the sash where he'd put it. Unopened.

He slid one foot forward, inching towards his bedroom.

This door he opened slowly, peeking around the frame.

Nothing.

He was certain, nothing.

He stepped inside and flipped the light switch. His bed, still messily pulled together. Clothes, still tossed half-folded on a chair. His bedside table, still strewn with jars and sleeping pills, a reading light, Jasper's wallet, and even a cool twig he'd found.

Nothing out of place.

Something rattled. He jumped, pointed his gun at the bathroom door, which hung ajar.

Yellow light from the bedroom trickled inside, giving the shower curtain a ghostly appearance. David pushed the door open, wincing as the hinge squealed.

He stuck his gun, and then his head, inside.

Movement. He snapped the barrel toward it, flicking the safety off.

A young man held a gun, pointing back at him.

He froze.

And then exhaled a huge breath he didn't know he'd been holding, dissolving laughter.

“Some detective,” he muttered, turning on the last light to reveal his mystery assailant. “Spooked by old plumbing and a mirror.”

He straightened up, putting the safety on and letting the gun hang at his side. He looked himself over.

The stain had faded and his face had gone pallid with nerves, but... it was still him. Even after the wine, the cigar, the dancing, the pleasure.

He was still him.

After he'd washed up and changed into a clean union suit, he refilled one of his jars and took a sleeping pill.

He set the gun on his bedside table, the grip within easy reach.

He needed to catch this guy. For everyone’s sake.

\---

A man - tall, slender, and blond in a familiar sort of way - stood on a street corner beneath the diffuse yellow light of a lamp. In one gloved hand, a black umbrella to keep the early morning mist off of his long black cassock; in the other, a lit cigarette. Trails of smoke drifted out from beneath the glistening umbrella, gracefully disappearing into the sprinkling rain.

At his feet sat a medical bag like the ones doctors take on house calls. It leaned against his leg, draped in thick black fabric. A line of tiny buttons ran up the front of his robe, leading to a clerical collar - a square of white just over the apple of his throat, almost hiding a pair of tiny cuts.

A priest, by all accounts.

He waited there, silently smoking the cigarette down to the filter, then dropping it to the sidewalk and crushing it under his heeled shoe.

Two others had been crushed previously, a few flakes of tobacco spilled across the concrete.

In the darkness across the street, a door creaked open. A man stepped out of a café and bakery whose sign read “The Motterie.” He closed the door with a click and locked it, then turned to glance down the street.

Nobody stood beneath the yellow street lamp. Only mist and the rumble of far-off thunder filled the night.

He hiccupped, and started on his way.

It was safest, at this hour, to stay on the main streets where the police sometimes drove or walked past on their nightly patrol routes. It typically scared away the breakers of the law.

Unfortunately, Frederick Mott, owner and proprietor of the successful Motterie, was a lush.

He ducked down an alleyway and through a back street towards his home, staggering through the shadows.

And the shadows followed, always half a block behind.

After several long minutes in the mist’s sobering cold, Frederick reached his home. He unlocked the front door of a quaint apartment; it was fairly large for New York, and on street level. He stepped inside without a second glance and bolted the door behind him.

The shadowy priest waited for a long moment in the darkness, watching lights flip on inside and movement behind the drapes. And then another minute, before melting out of the alleyway and crossing the street.

He stopped on the concrete porch to close his umbrella and turn his eyes skyward. He only had to watch for a moment before a flash of lightning cut across the sky. When the peal of thunder rolled in the distance, he knocked.

Frederick unlocked the door again and cautiously pulled it open a crack. He caught sight of the clerical collar and, confused, pulled it wider.

He’d changed into a smoking jacket over a union suit, and a smoldering cigar balanced between his fingers. Behind him, a fire crackled cheerily in a fireplace.

“Father?” he asked, looking the priest over.

“Father Appleton,” he nodded, offering a gloved hand, his umbrella now hooked over his forearm. “My apologies for the early call but I happened to be passing through when I saw you popping in. Frederick Mott, if I’m not mistaken?”

Frederick shook his hand, still wary. “...Yeah?” he confirmed, bewildered.

“Consider me a businessman,” Appleton started, reaching for the medical bag and cracking it open, “and an investor.”

He tilted it so Frederick could see the green glass bottle inside, filled with dark liquid. “May we step inside and... discuss the sacraments?”

Frederick brightened at the sight of alcohol.

“Oh, my apologies. Please, come in! You could also lecture me on the history of indulgences, as well.” He grinned and held the door wide, offering his home.

“Ah, a clever sort,” Appleton smirked. He stepped inside, carefully wiping his feet and hanging his umbrella on the coat rack.

Frederick motioned to a loveseat before the fire which Appleton gratefully sank into. He sat his bag on the low coffee table in front of him with a low clunk of heavy glass. Frederick crossed in front of the fireplace and pushed a well-loved armchair closer to the table. He collapsed into it, tired and buzzing with excitement and alcohol.

“So,” he beamed, “business.”

“Yes.” The priest took the wine bottle out of the bag and held it in his lap. “I know of your side business,” he said simply, resting his hand for a moment on the cork. “As you know, a congregation still allots me access to a supply of... tools,” he lifted the bottle by the neck, “of the trade.”

“A supplier,” Frederick said conspiratorially, lifting an eyebrow. “What makes you think I need a supplier?”

“Demand is higher than ever, and you're running low on the city’s leftovers. Several members of my flock are loyal customers of yours.” The priest put on a comfortably smug grin, his chin resting on his hand and his hand resting on top of the bottle.

Frederick laughed. “I see you did your research! What are you offering, exactly?”

“Well,” the priest scooted over on the loveseat. He reached out a gloved hand and grasped Frederick’s knee. “I came here this morning with a mutually beneficial business proposition. You have a congregation, of sorts.” He flashed a smile. “And I... could provide them a communion.”

Frederick gave a genuine grin in return, and patted the back of Appleton’s hand. “I think your meaning is clear,” he chuckled. “What is your price?”

“Oh, no, I couldn't make an offer without letting you sample my wares,” he offered, patting Frederick’s knee fondly. He leaned back up and set the wine bottle on the table.

“I had been hoping,” he confessed, his smile turning apologetic. He gave a little shrug of his shoulders. He then stood, the priest’s hand dropping from his knee. His thick socks, held up by garters around his calves, muffled his steps as he snuck into the kitchen. He reappeared a moment later, holding two wine glasses and a jagged corkscrew.

“This is a blend,” Appleton explained as he took the corkscrew. “Communion wine brightened up with a splash of apple wine from my family's orchard. The communion wine isn't poor quality, but I find it a bit bland. The apple wine pairs nicely with a sweet and tart aftertaste. I'm not sure on the ratios yet, so I would appreciate your thoughtful input.” He jammed the corkscrew through the seal with a practiced stab.

Frederick sat back down and watched the young priest work the cork out of the bottle’s thin neck. It popped out with a deep, hollow tone.

Appleton poured them each a glass, stopping when the bulb was a third full. He swirled the glass a few times, and waited for Frederick to do the same.

He lifted his glass eagerly, examining the deep burgundy in the glow of the fire.

“Such a striking color,” he marveled, and lowered his glass to sniff the contents. “And a layered bouquet, what is that hint of bitterness?”

Appleton sniffed it as well and frowned. “Hmm,” he tilted his head, “these may have been brewed in blackened barrels. I'll look into it.”

“Blackened barrels? For wine?”

“Yes,” the priest sighed, “it's difficult to acquire new kegs, and these may have been cognac barrels previously.”

Frederick only looked more excited. He took a sip, and swirled the glass again in thought.

Father Appleton followed suit, lifting the wine to his lips.

“It does taste a touch bitter,” Frederick noted, “but I actually like the complexity. This would be excellent hot and mulled with spices for the holidays.” He took a much longer sip.

Appleton pulled the glass away from his mouth with a smug grin. “I'm glad you don't have too much of a sweet tooth to enjoy yourself,” he said with a laugh.

“I haven't met a wine I don't like,” Frederick replied with a wink, then tipping back the rest of his glass.

“Another?” Appleton offered, pouring him another glass before he could set it down.

Frederick nodded and lifted it to his lips again, his cheeks warming as he drank. He sighed in satisfaction and then rounded once again on the priest.

“I see you know the power of drunkenness during a business negotiation!”

Appleton looked sheepish. “Perhaps that _is_ part of it,” he admitted, tipping more wine into Frederick's glass. “Can you blame me? Church attendance has risen, and I am stooping to any level necessary for a simple fundraising effort.”

Frederick tipped the glass towards him in a shallow toast motion. “Hear hear,” he laughed. “I will bring them and you will save them, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Appleton muttered, still looking embarrassed after he'd been caught.

They sat together for a moment in silent contemplation, Frederick steadily making his way through another glass as Appleton stared into the flickering orange fire.

“Where is this wine dispensed?” Frederick asked, his cheeks going even darker. “It's strong stuff.”

“A little pharmacy down the street.” The priest poured his glass a little fuller this time. “And I believe the vintner is from Virginia somewhere.”

Frederick set the glass down on the table. “I'm quite buzzed, may I know what your price is?” he asked politely.

“For this blend? Or for a percentage of my allotted wine?” He lifted the bottle and sloshed it around, seeming surprised that Frederick had emptied half himself.

“For...” Frederick paused, his knuckles suddenly going white as he clutched the arm of the chair. “Uh, what was I... this is very strong,” he slurred, eyes going unfocused.

“Exceptionally strong,” Appleton nodded. One bottle is a lifetime supply.”

Frederick's eyes unfocused. He sucked in a breath.

He wheezed.

“Father, what's...” he managed before pausing to gasp for breath.

“Stay calm, Frederick. You need a bit of water and a nice lie-down,” Appleton suggested.

His eyes were too cold. His smile was too sharp.

Frederick grasped at his throat, looking too confused to be fearful. “Fah...hah...” he squeaked.

And then realization bloomed in his foggy eyes.

“P...Prophet!”

He tried to stand, to reach for the priest or maybe to run to the phone in the kitchen.

But he stumbled against the coffee table.

Wine dashed across the floor. Frederick fell to his knees, scratching his shin against the beveled wood. And then he crumpled face first into the carpet.

“I knew you were a clever one,” the Prophet said coolly, “and I'm sorry, but my father requires another sacrifice.”

He kneeled beside the dying man, running his fingers through Frederick's hair comfortingly. “Shh,” he shushed, and then cooed, “sleep now, Frederick. Cyanide works fast.”

\---

Commissioner Campbell slammed on his brakes and kicked the door open. A second patrol car pulled up just behind him, and then a third.

Nobody else was here yet. No concerned neighbors or gawkers or journalists. Just a creaking wooden door hanging open in the dawn air.

Nobody else had heard anything, seen anything. Even the anonymous tipster would remain anonymous.

Campbell stepped up to the door with his hand on his gun, his face a mask of grim determination. He drew the weapon, and nudged the door open with his shoulder.

Silence. Stillness. An empty living room. The fire crackled happily, some of the logs yet unburned on the ends.

He stepped inside, motioning for an officer to check the kitchen in back, and twice more for the doors off the side - a bedroom and bathroom, he assumed.

Three men drew pistols and trained them on the floor, moving past Campbell like ghosts towards their respective rooms. The first one inside headed across the living room, but stopped in the middle. He pointed at his eyes, and then at the floor.

Something interesting to watch out for.

As he took another step, something beyond him began a burbling cry.

Everyone froze, listening to the squall rising from a sloshing wail to a furious, high-pitched whistle.

The officer dashed further in, and in an instant, the horrible noise died with a strangled sound.

“Tea kettle,” the officer called out. “That fucker was just here.”

Campbell walked far enough to see what he'd been cautioned to look out for.

Spilled wine.

“He's taunting us,” Campbell insisted. “He's a show-off. Check those rooms, quickly.”

“How does he manage this every time?” another officer muttered from the front door. “It's like he knows how much time he has before we’ll arrive.”

“That's why he's the Prophet,” Campbell grumbled.

An officer opened his assigned door to reveal a carpet soaked and shining with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, how did you like the spice?
> 
> Some weird things I researched:
> 
> •Female jailclothes from the early 20th century are these weird striped nightgown things as far as I could find lmao they're wild
> 
> •Cyanide was one of three commonly used poisons during this time period along with arsenic (which was really only useful in long-term poisonings that resembled an illness, and has been recorded as a poison as early as the Roman Empire) and chloroform, which would be an ideal poison for this (as it can be inhaled or ingested and has little taste and a sweet scent) if it wasn't so difficult to obtain without raising suspicion. Cyanide, however, is present in the seeds of several kinds of fruit and can be soaked out into alcohol solutions. The taste is bitter, however, and it kills by suffocating your oxygen-dependent cells like the ones in the heart, lungs, and brain.
> 
> •I am sorry for killing Frederick I honestly like the guy but. It's a serial killer au lol


End file.
